When my very first dog died, I vowed to never get another one. She was a sweet English Springer Spaniel who would hold her head tall in a seemingly proud gesture, but it was just to feel her ears flap in the wind. I still dream of her, and have her ashes on my writing desk.
Years later, my father got a hunting dog: a large, male, German Shorthaired Pointer with an incredibly large head and a mean scar on his cheek from a battle with a pheasant. Some how this dog--a textbook antithsis of my first--snuggled his way in: he became mine.
Let’s get it straight: heartbreak sucks. Losing sucks.
So go on. Run all you want. Make vows, decrees, and vast generalizations. Get all Miss Havisham about it.
The fact of the matter is you can still be surprised, even late in the match, after all the fair-weather fans left early. It can happen to best of us (and to the worst of us).
Even Estella came around. You will too.
You’d be surprised.
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