Pachie was our dog when I was a teenager. He was a spaniel-sized mutt with silky red fur, a plump puppy face even when an adult, and long singular strands of black feathers that draped over his ears. Pachie was my respite from teenage loneliness, always eager for a long walk, ready to plop on a bed at home. His best trick was to jump on me when I told him, “I’ve got the blahs.” Melancholy in his human litter mate would be wiped out by launching himself at me and covering my face with exuberant smooches. Seeing genuine sadness in me, which happened a lot, he’d respond the same way. The most loyal and loving dog, he read every family member’s emotional state and reacted with boundless affection.
When we brought home our first born son, I bent to show Pachie, now old and arthritic, the baby. He sniffed at his newest brother, then turned and walked right by my side to the living room. After that, he assigned himself as Noah’s guardian, and if you wanted to see the new baby, you had to get Pachie’s approval. He died of old age at eighteen on the Fourth of July, when our younger son, Ethan, was nearly one year old. No one was ever lonely for long with Pachie around and when he was gone, I grieved him for many years.
A fellow blogger and good friend told me her writing space is a dark corner in her basement. I burst out laughing. Writing is a lonely endeavor. Here we sit with our laptops in our corners and we talk to ourselves for hours and hours and hours. I work on my big desk top computer because it has an ergonomically correct keyboard that makes it easier on my carpal tunnel injured hands . The computer is in the middle of the living room. Awkward and ugly, but my plans to move it to a secondary bedroom are rough sketches and not action yet. Still, I talk to myself, literally out loud, talk talk talk, embarrassed when my husband walks in on me even though he’s used to catching me in writing mode. I’m not that interesting to talk to under the most social of circumstances, but when I write, it’s my modus operandi. Even when I talk-write, I’m a bit lonely. Wish Pachie was still by my side. (Hubby always leaves.)