If I had to send you a Christmas card...

...it would say this:

"I wanted to wish you a Merry Christmas despite my raging insecurities and social awkwardness"

There might even be a picture of a chipmunk on the front. Holding a trumpet.

Granted, if you got one from me at this point, it would only be two weeks late. Which isn't entirely out of character for me. Three cheers for God-awful procrastination!

"Hip hip-"
*crack of thunder*

Christmas card greeting brought to you by Dooce. Damn funny stuff, if I haven't said it...oh, five times before. Six maybe?

Good-bye

This evening, at a time I'm not quite sure of, or really care to know of, our yellow lab Nellie passed away. Because I'm terrible with words in person, I wrote an email to my family across the nation just to let them know. In retrospect though, it was more for me than for them. Writing has always been an outlet for me, and in this case, it was for my grief. This is a copy of that email.

"It is with a truly heavy heart that I
inform you all of the passing of our beloved yellow lab Nellie. She was
about four years old at the time of her death Tuesday evening, with three of
those years being spent with our family.
Almost a month ago, a veterinarian diagnosed Nellie with Lyme Disease, contracted from the smallest of creatures - a tick. Over the course of the last several days, we became
increasingly aware of the disease's effect by the back leg Nellie refused to
walk on due to severe joint pain, and the tremors which shook her body.
Upon seeing the veterinarian this evening, we learned that these signs
represented the final stages of the disease's run, and kidney failure was
extremely likely. Nellie passed this Tuesday evening, and was buried in
our backyard next to another great, lost friend - Casey.

Although we had her for only three short years, the time we spent with
her was enough to build the type of bond that only seems to exist between
incredibly close friends. Yet the fact that she was an energetic, blonde
dog rather than a human seems to make the pain all the worse.

Nellie never came home angry and irritated. She never refused to talk
to you because you'd been a complete jerk the night before. She never
snapped at you, or threw temper tantrums. She was always excited to see
you, even if you might not have wanted to see her.

Nellie was content with going after a tennis ball one or two million
times. With taking up most of the bed and leaving you enough room
to curl up in the fetal position. With sitting her 60-70 lb bulk
directly in your lap if you ever made the mistake of thinking the floor
would be more comfortable than the couch. With chattering her teeth
together in excitement when it was time to go outside. With leaning up
against you as she sat down if it just meant being close.

Nellie ran like a deer, wagged like a maniac, and licked like a...well, I'm
not quite sure. But you stood a good chance of getting licked. Or
jumped on.

She was the embodiment of all the energy of the sun trapped in a furry
creature with four legs and not enough time to release it all. She
was incredibly unique, at least to us, and was the perfect fit in our
family. And now, unfortunately, she is gone.

At this point, I'm still not sure that knowing of her passing in advance
would have been any consolation. As old age approaches in any creature -
whether dog or human - we become increasingly aware of the reality of
mortality. In that state, we can prepare ourselves for what's to come and
say good-bye, yet we also have more time to lament on memories and
the shoulda's and woulda's of life.

As was Nellie's case, there was no time to lament and become
depressed. And there was also no time to say
good-bye.

I left for College Park earlier today for a doctor's appointment, and gave
all the animals a quick rub farewell. "Don't destroy the house," I called
out just as I closed the door, knowing that Nellie had a veterinarian's
appointment later today, and thinking they would give her some
medicine to ease the tremors. Hours later, I called home and learned
that this was not the case.

So I hope you will join me in saying a final farewell to Nellie - the
one you might not have thought to give the last time you saw her big brown eyes
as you walked out our door.


Good-bye Nellie. Thank you for being the best friend I
always wanted and will always remember. I love you, and hope you forever
rest in peace.

-Chris"