Since I am 39+ weeks pregnant with no daily happenings worth writing about, except for the fact that I am $$^%^$#@ 39+ weeks pregnant, I thought I'd distract myself by getting out some guilt.
The dog is dead.
Ok, no. I'm not writing about "The Telltale Heart" kind of guilt, folks. While I did threaten to kill him many times, I didn't know how to cleanly dispose of a 110 pound hairy carcass so I couldn't do it.
He died of a heart fluke. My husband talked to the vet about fixing the problem, but he told him the prognosis was grim and it would certainly be back if he were to recover. We made the decision in a 12-second phone call.
This was in November and the past three months are best described as joy-filled and hair-free.
I don't miss him.
I don't miss vacuuming once a day.
I don't miss refereeing the snack fights that happened 5 times a day when my son walked by him with handfuls of Bunny Grahams and Cheerios.
I don't miss the destruction that took place when it thundered.
I don't miss the stares I got when he wanted to go for a walk and the loud "Harumph" directed my way when he realized it was not happening.
I don't miss the sticks, leaves, and mud.
I don't miss the pawprints everywhere.
I don't miss lifting heavy bags of dog food into the cart.
I don't miss feeling like Cinderella, pre-glass slipper, when I picked up dog poop.
I don't miss people saying, "What a good dog you have there!" and then laughing when I asked if they wanted him.
I don't miss noseprints on every window.
I don't miss living with a beast who would be in my weight class were we boxers.
I don't miss any of it and I feel guilty but elated. He's probably better off too, because, let's face it, post-partem I would have figured out how to get rid of a 110 pound hairy carcass.