Regrets

 

So, she died. Last year, on 26 June at a quarter to midnight, she slipped out of my hands and went to join the others at the Rainbow Bridge. And except for a single book announcement for a friend, this blog has been dark ever since.

She tried so hard to live, Emily did. She fought and she struggled, but that last day when she was failing, crashing, at the end of her endurance, the medical help we needed was denied us. A young English vet at the CARE clinic in Collingwood refused even to examine her. The operation that would have saved her was scheduled for Monday morning, and all she needed was massive antibiotics and a drip, to sustain her for it. And yes, this has been confirmed by our own vet, who as ill chance would have it, was out of town and stuck with his car disabled.

So there's a lot of regret there for me. If only I'd acted sooner. If I hadn't waited to be sure she could cope well on three legs. If I hadn't waited for the lockdown but just gone on down to the city and accepted that we might be stuck there for months. If, if, if. I lost my precious girl, and nothing, nothing will ever be really right again.

But I have another regret now, and one that could have been more easily avoided. Just weeks after Emily died, I was offered the pick of a litter from one of Australia's top breeders. And although it was too soon, after much havering I said yes, because I knew it was what Emily would have wanted. And in October, I brought home my new puppy. Chips, I call him. That's from something with Emily. I always felt that I was at last giving her the puppy she'd always wanted. The first thing I did when I got him home was to take him to her graveside and show him to her.

But because I was still grieving, and it was so soon, I never posted much about him on social media. I always held back, because I was afraid people would condemn me for 'moving on' with such ease, and I wasn't strong enough to face a storm of condemnation from my friends. I've come to see how stupid this was. No one, no one whom I consider a friend, would have thought the least thing wrong. I was an idiot, I accept that.

But I'm left with the results of it. For years, over my morning coffee I've scrolled through my Facebook memories, seeing the joys and sorrows. But now, when Chips is almost grown up, there are no Chips memories on Facebook. It's still all Emily. And of course I love to see the Emily memories, but there should have been some of Chips. And there have been so many wonderful memories already. We've even been on two road trips together. One day I am going to regret this even more bitterly than I do now. 

So my message today is this. Don't hold back because of how you think you will be judged by the community. It's almost certainly all in your head, some shit you've made up because you were unhappy and not seeing clearly. 

Back with the Books - stunning new fiction from a master in the making

 

I haven't been reviewing books much lately in this blog, or indeed doing much of anything. The whole of last year was taken up with personal matters. The anxiety and exhaustion of round the clock nursing in the first half of the year gave way only to the pain and inertia of loss in the second half, and later to the constant, obsessive exhaustion of a new puppy, and what with all that, it's a wonder if I even read anything, let alone had anything sensible to say about it.

One book, however, stands out from the many I read, and that is A Closet Feminist, by Carla Sarett. Many of you will be familiar with Sarett's biting, sparkling little short stories. I first encountered her work in The Rabbi's Lesson, still one of my favourite stories, with that tingle down the back of the neck that one gets on first reading something by one who is to become a favourite author - you know that sensation, where your hairs prickle and you find your reading speed slowing down to a crawl so that you don't miss savouring every word.

Sarett came out with her debut novel, The Looking Glass, last October, and that's a fine novel indeed, but it is A Closet Feminist that, for me, really showcases this writer's extraordinary talent and the particular shine of her work. It's not the tawdry glare of neone or stage footlights, but rather the sparkles and gleams of the small things; the myriad coruscating points of light from frost on the grass, or the sudden shaft of sunlight piercing through dappled green. To me, it has always been the mark of greatness in a writer, when the ordinary is lifted up and made special, and this quality is present in A Closet Feminist in generous measure.

Available from Amazon