When 7 Dirty Words Aren’t Enough

Fuckshitpisscuntmotherfuckercocksuckertits
assgoddamnpinchemotherfuckingsonofabitch…

You know those times when the seven dirty words just aren’t enough?  Those days when the pain and heartache and frustration and grief and sadness are too much to bear?

Finally, I am beginning to feel like I have one foot out of the grave.  Sadly, Luna seems to have three paws in the grave and her fourth paw is precariously balanced on a banana peel (more accurately, I keep finding her, and all four of her feet, trapped, upside down, in a grey water ditch, unable to get out). Yesterday, I finally got to the vet in La Paz and he confirmed my worst suspicions, namely that Pequeña has a torn cruciate ligament and needs surgery to the tune of $2,000 (which is about $20,000 more than I have) and the recovery process is going to be a 6-8 week nightmare, with mi pobrecita kenneled and poor me having to keep her apart from her sister and her brother at all costs. Pequeña and Loquita wrestle like maniacal boys, then Jalisco jumps into the mix and things really get crazy.

If I had one character flaw I would admit to, it is my habit of freaking out and jumping to the worst case scenario. Following my big drama moment, or days.  I can usually pull myself back from the brink of madness and start thinking logically. Sadly, in this case, my worst case scenario is the reality.

I wish I could go back to sleep and wake up on August 1, 2016, so full of hope and big dreams for my new life as an illegal alien in Todos Santos, BCS, Mexico.

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