Today’s date, 10/11/12, is one of those dates that’s numerically fun. (For my European friends, I guess it was yesterday.) And, of course, in one month and one day, we’ll have the last “golden date” of this century, 12/12/12.
But for me, October 11th is a sad day, a day of mourning. Eight years ago today, in 2004, my dog — who brought me as close as I have ever come to having my own child — took her last breath. Her name was Samantha; she was only ten.
That she died a couple of years after we moved into a new place I’d bought in part to provide an ideal home for her was tough. That she died a bit over a year after my divorce was final was really tough. That she died only months after the first time my job at The Company was eliminated and I had found a new position two days before my end date was just icing on a shit cake.
Today I choose to commemorate her passing by writing about the perfect day.
When I woke up this morning, it was 67 degrees in the house and 57 outside. (Fahrenheit, by the way.) Right now, I’m sitting here fighting the urge to turn on the furnace. Or at least put on some socks (I’m a barefoot boy unless I absolutely, positively must wear shoes; I rarely am stocking footed; shoes or nothing, preferably nothing).
Logos con carne 