Last night I took some drugs - acetaminophen pm - to make sure I slept through the night. And it worked. I woke, looked at the door to my bedroom, which was open. I have opened the doors that I closed to Bullet during his last illness.

I am getting rid of all evidence of that illness. Not of Bullet but of those awful days and weeks. I am cleaning spots in the rug and splashes of saliva and blood on the walls. Looking at these remnants reminds me too much of how it was for him.

I am taking this very hard, perhaps harder than I have the deaths of other animals. I don't know why, except that it was so drawn-out. And because Bullet was smelly and matted at the end and hard to hug.

In the midst of my tears, though, I feel like a weight has shifted and I can do better now for myself.