Processing the News

I lay awake most of last night staring at the ceiling. Thinking there must be something going on in the world to take my mind off the achingly empty space in my soul (and at the foot of my bed) left by the sudden departure of my dog. I went on line to investigate.

There was lots of old news: Netanyahu is pissing off Obama, ISIS is spreading its toxic word to misguided teenagers well beyond the battlefields of Syria, politicians are behaving badly. Yawn. There were a few titillating new tidbits -- the glossy photo of Kim Kardashian's large ass, or more accurately, the large photo of Kim's glossy ass, looking like a pair of balloons inflated by a helium tank gone haywire; the uber-moral right wingers equating Chipotle's refusal to serve environmentally unfriendly pork with other businesses' refusal to serve gays, lesbians, and bisexuals (that one made Kim's butt cheeks seem less ridiculous). And -- tucked in right after the really important news -- there was the unimaginable tragedy of seven children losing their lives in a house fire not far from my old high school in Brooklyn.

That last one stuck with me, gave me a dose of perspective on the topic of personal loss. On the topic of what's important and what isn't. Theoretically anyway. Life will go on, for me, even for the firemen who had to battle the Brooklyn blaze, and the talking heads will continue to talk mostly about the power of fanaticism and inhumanity and abject stupidity. Maybe that's what it's all about -- why we are all here for such a short time. After all, how much can anyone take?

My attempt to take my mind off my own silly grief was an exercise in futility. The news -- whether it is sad in and of itself or whether it is sad by virtue of the fact that it is news -- did not make the long dark hours pass any quicker. Nor did it stop my mind from its constant trickery. I kept hearing the click-click of tiny paws on the wood floor downstairs, the polite but firm bark of a dog by the back door wanting to go outside, the gentle, rhythmic snoring of a creature dreaming of tantalizing new smells and bit of beef jerky.

I doubt life will ever again be bearable for the mother who survived the Brooklyn fire or for anyone else who loved those children. Not so for me. All I lost was a dog, and when you get a dog, you fully expect that it will die before you do. In life, they provide you with a special kind of love and joy, and in death they leave you with a special kind of pain. And, on the bright side, in both life and death, they give you a good reason to take your mind off all the fanaticism and the inhumanity and the abject stupidity. Thank you, Manny, for that.