Woody

Woody, the oversized Dachschund is seriously impaired. He can walk; he cannot run. Like most animals, he bears his pain mutely, and anthropomorphized, he is a brave young man, way to young to have such a problem. I fear for him. Back problems in these long, low dogs is always a threat. We do not have the kind of money that it takes to have a vet diagnose this sort of thing. He has to mend himself, or his outcome is terrible. I love this dog. He is wild and excitable and a huge challenge in the car or at the beach, but he is beautiful and affectionate with me, at least.

Woody's bout with his back problem comes at a difficult time. Tomorrow we rent a van and over the weekend we pack and deliver its contents to Rhode Island. Yesterday we found a place on College Hill for the winter months, through Memorial Day weekend, and today the real closing date has been set for the last Monday in the month. I fee the emotional and financial pressures mounting, the tug of the wretched Undertoad pulling at me, trying to drag me to a stop and down, and I am fighting the urge to panic or to bolt that I often feel. I am deeply saddened by the reality of leaving our old town, however challenging it may have been to remain there all of these years. It is hard to see the resolution as a win; it is all to easy to see it as among life's many defeats. Woody is the poor dachschund who's back has more or less literally been broken by our debacle. He symbolizes untimely defeat to me right now. I hope he may cure himself at the eleventh hour and close to midnight. I hope to quash the ugly Undertoad's vain efforts to suck me away into some negative space I can ill afford. I need to move ahead, to hold my head high for everyone around me's sake. There are no options. This is life and every other option is irrevocable, it seems to me. Come on, Woody! Let's not bend and break, but mend.