Six years ago, I was not anything to write home about. Yes, I’d survived the Pupu Platter of Death, but barely. I could hardly walk, could not climb stairs, had trouble getting up from a chair, never mind my bed.
Less than two weeks after returning home, the main inspiration I had to live and, I believe, the reason I made it home, died in my arms under the pine trees in a soft rain at North Country Animal Hospital.
One of the vets found me sitting in my car half an hour later, the only person in the parking lot.
“Can I do anything for you?” she asked.
I was numb. My voice trembled, “I’ve never gone home without Atticus.”
Television stations, newspapers, and magazines reported on the life and death of Atticus M. Finch. A few celebrities and politicians reached out. None of it mattered. My grieving was both white-hot and ice cold. The loneliness was impossible to swim through, especially at two in the morning.
My reason for surviving was dead. The conversations with God wer…
