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The Mansion

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Mav Unlimited said:
Good Night, The Light of My :heart:

Hope you had a wonderful Thanksgiving.

I'll see you tomorrow.

:kiss:
Click to expand...

:kiss: It was wonderful. It's always wonderful when family gathers. People laughing and teasing then complaining they ate too much and it's all my fault. *grins* Good times.

I'll talk to you tomorrow.

:heart: :kiss:
 
Pictures for story threads

Sometimes I come across pictures that just speak to me. There's a story waiting to be told, I just can't hear the whisper yet. So, I'll vault them here until I can.




http://30.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_m24hesVeZC1qheknto1_500.jpg

http://29.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_m2f553cPfg1r4w56oo1_500.jpg

http://25.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_m27ycctb181qa7gx5o1_500.jpg

http://27.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_lz3j4u35mY1qd8bubo1_500.jpg

http://28.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_lw0ximpJkK1qh7l4ho1_500.jpg

http://i13.photobucket.com/albums/a284/mothermagic/312927_233412186712478_159560710764293_625376_598149345_n.jpg

http://i149.photobucket.com/albums/s44/locakawaii/athena.jpg

http://i1179.photobucket.com/albums/x396/deadpoolGREPOLISSWEDEN/aphrodite.jpg

http://28.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_lmr2tbLlRM1qf80m9o1_500.png

http://images.alphacoders.com/126/thumbbig-126443.jpg
 
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Admin Work

Updated thread ideas with two new thoughts.

Updated Sidhe Seer with a bit more info.

Removed the pics to their own page.

Updated sig to reflect the changes.
 
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Journal Entry~

My cats and dogs aren't pets, they're family. They give so much and they trust that I'll take care of them, love them. It's hard when one dies, especially one who has been around the longest. Everything dies. In its own time.

They say the bigger the dog, the shorter its lifespan. Clifford was huge. He was half wolf, half golden retriever and the scariest looking dog. To look at him, you'd think he'd rip your throat out. To hear him bark would make you freeze in your tracks and stop breathing. He was fierce looking. But he was the sweetest, most loving dog. He was the last baby my wolf gave birth to. A member of the family called him Clifford. So named after Clifford, the Big Red Dog. We never thought he'd get that big.

He's been ailing, slowing down, these past few months. For the past month, his breathing has been labored. He wasn't in any pain as far as I could tell. He was just, well, Clifford. He wasn't going to die in a hospital if I could help it. Don't get me wrong, if he were suffering, I wouldn't allow that, but he wasn't. He should die, by rights, at home, in the house he had only known, surrounded by his loved ones. And he did. This morning. He was eleven years old in human years.

I spent a good part of the morning with the guys, digging his grave in his backyard. He never tried to jump the fence, easily could have, but never did. I guess he never wanted to explore beyond his safe zone. He was loved in life, died with that love around him and when I started to cover his cloth covered body, I continued to love him. I'd like to think the wind took his soul with it. Today of all days, when the wind has been gusting strongly. I've been sitting here, talking with M about a lot of things and periodically my mind slips and I think about Clifford. I think about how he came to my room every morning for his daily biscuits (he got them because of his hips). I think about how he hated the feel of bare wood under his feet so we put off laying the wooden floors in the living and dining rooms or the kitchen. We made the mistake of laying down the wood in the hall and he wouldn't go down there unless the hall rugs were down. I think about how he loved playing with kids and my sheltie. My thoughts are with smiles even if my heart is heavy.

We live. We love. We remember.
 
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A giggle.

Another.

A dark-haired maid with long tresses falling from a ruined bun steps into the hall from his door, wrapped in the remnants of her uniform, stockings torn up the backs and barefoot upon the hardwood. She is a beautiful, girlish vision, flushed and happy until she turns and darts down the hall.

He emerges after. It's been a quiet month. He's had a lot to see to and not enough time to spend amongst these two. The Manse is really one big expression of the pair now. Everything symbiotic. A few might suspect he doesn't mind playing the outsider amongst them. A virus, of sorts, that they just can't kick.

Still. He's not all bad.

There are the flowers on the entertainment room's counter that he leaves once more. A six-pack of microbrew in its usual place. Acknowledgements. He's never been particularly social around here. It's what he hopes makes the little things he does manage significant.

He's about as far from flippant as you can be.

The couch claims him. The spread of TV's turned on. There aren't many games happening live right now but there are the chatterbox shows filled with the fragments of information he is so fond of collecting. Pieces, inclinations, and wild guesses. By the time they get in he'll be gone again. He lives at The Box now. His best friend is the pull-up.

Still, that evidence will remain.

He'll catch them one day before he's gone.
 
An Addendum:

Timing. He's never had much of it. It takes a phone call, a few conspiratorial whispers to a few particular maids, and arrangements are left throughout the house. White. Lily's. The loss of a loved one is always hard. Sometimes, for whatever reason, it's harder with dogs. They love so entirely. So completely.

His sympathy comes and is absentee. A consequence of his lifestyle.

But his thoughts are there. And his empathy. He'll pay a little closer attention to his companions. Give them a few extra miles to stretch their legs without the leash when he takes them on their nightly adventure.

And before he goes back to his room for sleep he'll find Cait, wherever she is in this house, and give her a hug.
 
Morning came and with it, a new promise of things to come, things to look forward to. His flowers made me teary-eyed. The hug warmed me. Only one other understood me so well.

Loss is always difficult. I always think I'm going to see him lying in his usual places on the floor or expecting to step over his huge warm body, only to realize, it just isn't so anymore. Funny, perhaps, that I feel like that, having buried so many in my life time, but it never changes. The feelings and thoughts are always the same. Structure of the Beast, I imagine.

The air is cold as I breathe it into my lungs. I'm watching the twinkling lights go up around the mansion, supervising the placement of outdoor decorations as I do so. Inside, the maids are putting the decorations up according to my specifications. The only thing I should have to do is put up the mistletoe and I'm looking forward to that. ;)

Life goes on. I don't dwell. I feel the ache in my heart, that suffices. Yule is in the air. I love it and now I have someone to share it with. I have friends to share it with. Could my life be any richer?
 
Slips in and out silently leaving you a small poem that is close to my heart hoping that it will bring you comfort.

The best place to bury a good dog.

"There is one best place to bury a dog.
"If you bury him in this spot, he will
come to you when you call - come to you
over the grim, dim frontier of death,
and down the well-remembered path,
and to your side again.

"And though you call a dozen living
dogs to heel, they shall not growl at
him, nor resent his coming,
for he belongs there.

"People may scoff at you, who see
no lightest blade of grass bent by his
footfall, who hear no whimper, people
who may never really have had a dog.
Smile at them, for you shall know
something that is hidden from them,
and which is well worth the knowing.

"The one best place to bury a good
dog is in the heart of his master."

--- Ben Hur Lampman ---

:rose:​
 
Thank you for sharing this, Yeishia. So true. *hugs*:kiss:


yeishia said:
Slips in and out silently leaving you a small poem that is close to my heart hoping that it will bring you comfort.

The best place to bury a good dog.

"There is one best place to bury a dog.
"If you bury him in this spot, he will
come to you when you call - come to you
over the grim, dim frontier of death,
and down the well-remembered path,
and to your side again.

"And though you call a dozen living
dogs to heel, they shall not growl at
him, nor resent his coming,
for he belongs there.

"People may scoff at you, who see
no lightest blade of grass bent by his
footfall, who hear no whimper, people
who may never really have had a dog.
Smile at them, for you shall know
something that is hidden from them,
and which is well worth the knowing.

"The one best place to bury a good
dog is in the heart of his master."

--- Ben Hur Lampman ---

:rose:​
Click to expand...
 
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