The blog post I never wanted to write.

On paper, a dog shouldn’t mean so much. But often things aren’t the same on paper as they are in your heart.

Today I had to get Cleo put to sleep. The vet said it could take up to a minute, but it was a matter of seconds, really. She was old, and she was hurting, and she went very quickly.

So I’m a mess, of course.

Twelve years is a long time. I think it will take me a while to be able to go to sleep without listening for her claws clicking across the floors, as she’d flop down beside my bed with a long sigh before snoring like a chainsaw.

Cleo and her BFF Grub, being accidentally photogenic. 

Once upon a time – and I’ve probably told this story before – Cleo ate Christmas.

It was my first year in my own house, and I was going to make the latticed veranda beautiful. I went and spent a lot of money on Christmas lights and decorations, then spent hours threading them through the lattice. Hours, getting the spacing just right. My arms and shoulders were killing me by the time I was finished. I flicked the lights on once to make sure they worked.

God, it would look so good at night when I turned them on. I could hardly wait!

Then, studying the molding above the front door, I thought to myself, That would look great with a piece of tinsel above it.

I went inside to get some tinsel.

And, in the thirty seconds I was gone, the dog chewed through the power cord for the lights. Hours of painstaking work with a chair and a step ladder… ruined.

“We are never doing Christmas again!”

I pulled all the lights and the tinsel and the decorations down while I ranted and raved and had a meltdown, and the dog just sat and placidly watched me go insane.

“Never again!”

We did, of course. Lots of times. And Cleo never really lost the uncanny ability to hone in on the things I least wanted eaten, and eat them. My brother-in-law’s new expensive sunglasses. Books. Yummy crunchy CDs. Any bra she could reach.

She was fun and stupid and lazy and sneaky and sweet and stinky and happy and naughty and bouncy.

I’m going to miss her like hell.

Dear Douglas: An Anzac Day post

Dear Douglas, 

Once upon a time, when I was a kid, a picture of you hung in my grandparents' house. Soldier you: looking all very solemn in your uniform. As solemn as everyone in old photographs looks. That photograph hangs in my mother's house now. 

From the time I was little, I used to ask my grandmother to tell your story, every time. She never met you, of course. You were the brother-in-law who died before she even met my grandfather. But here's what she knew: 

You were the favourite of all my great-grandmother's children. 

The only golden haired child, in a family of brunettes. 

(And you can make of that what you will.)

Your father died when you were a child. He was cleaning his gun. 

(Make of that what you will, as well.) 

You were the kid who lied about his age to go to war. You weren't eighteen at all. 

Your mother never forgave your older brother for being the one who survived. 

When I was a kid, I figured that you had to die. All the pieces are there for a perfect tragedy, right? If you hadn't been the favourite, you would have lived. If you hadn't lied to join up, you would have lived. If you hadn't been so full of youth and optimism and unfulfilled potential, you would have lived. 

When I was a kid, I understood this is an unassailable truth. 

But of course life doesn't have the same rules that art does. Life doesn't follow the structure of a story.  What happened to you is only tragic in its banality, and in the epic fucking scope of the First World War. 

On days like Anzac Day, I do try to take the time to reflect, but I don't know how I feel about the words that get used. Words like "sacrifice" and "honour" and "at rest". 

You were nineteen when you died. You were still pretty much a kid. Was it honour and sacrifice you expected, or was it adventure? You were nineteen. Nobody should be at rest when they're nineteen. 

I wish I knew more about you, Douglas. I wish you'd written more than your name in the front of your journal. I know exactly how you died -- from the letter your commanding officer sent your mother and, in detail, from the one your friend sent your brother -- but I don't know how you lived. 

I wish I knew that. 

- Lisa