Miss My Writing Bud

So it has come to my attention that I need to discuss a personal issue here. Generally I don't like to do that. I like to keep this forum for thoughts on writing and reading and try to keep the personal at arms length. But as savvy, long-time reader know, I do mix the fam in every now and then (see here and here). Still, I generally try and find a way to bring it back to writing and I'm sure I'll find a way to do that here as well. All that being said, Killian, my best friend for almost fifteen years, who has made his way into this blog a couple of times (see here), passed away on Wednesday morning.

There would be several novels that could be written from this experience. I've managed helping to put a dog to sleep, but this time. . . Killian's passing was unlike any of the others I've been a part of. Good and bad. From the unexpected and surprising warm hug on my doorstep from the vet as he left, one that I didn't know I needed but obviously he realized I did, to the complex and sometimes difficult dealings with close friends and family. There has to be a novel in there somewhere about how it's good to know who you got in your fox-hole.

Or there is the "Marley and Me" style novel that recounts the life of a great fellow like Killian. One that brings up his wonky, over-the-line disgusting bad deeds, to his warm-hearted and gentle great ones. Mostly I'm sure in a James Herriot kind of way I would bring up how he would thump heavily at my side as I typed away on my novels, always seeming to search me out like a latent, somewhat running-behind-schedule shadow. Or perhaps how he grunted and groaned with satisfaction as a writer's toe reached down to give his ear a scratch every now and then.

But I think the most startling novel would be the one regarding the reaction to his death of those who were closest to him. How the almost nine year old in the house, who I had to tell to set a good example, couldn't contain himself from rushing inside to see if Killian was still home, and let just a few tears slip when he finally realized the bad news, but who bucked himself up and matured what seemed like decades right before my eyse. How the five year old wailed with grief for over an hour, tragically and completely beside himself in his sadness when he heard the news that the companion who had been by his side his entire life would no longer be around for long walks or to help him go to sleep at night. And how the four year old, still not quite sure what was going on, retreated into his shell to wait out the difficulty he saw his big-brother hero going through.

Somewhere amid all of this is a novel just waiting to be set free. But for me, I'll just miss having the fellow around when I'm writing.