coping.

I'd like you to meet this dog. Only, this isn't her. I can't find a picture. But this kind of looks like her.

Her name is Dixie. We got her in Alabama (before I lived there).

She's my brother's.

(This brother. You know, the libertarian, on-fire-for-God one. He's going to Harding in January. I will miss him. We're pretty tight. Growing up together can do that for two people.)

So, this dog. Dixie. She's my brother's. He loves her. He even thought about taking her to prom once. (He decided not to go at all. We both didn't. We have that in common-- and a lot of other things.)

Back to the story. He loves Dixie. And she has cancer. We found out last week. Today we found out it's worse than we thought.

We're all a little down right now.

Because see, I got married. And Chet is going to Harding. A lot of change for us to handle. But at least my parents had two dogs to keep them company. Comfort, you know?

Now they might not.

I actually don't like Dixie all that much. That's cruel to say, and I hate admitting it. It's a little heartless, I realize. But I might as well be honest. She has a lot of hair. And is a little hyper. I don't know how old she is, but she acts two. So, I touch her on occasion, but she's not my fav. She's Chet's. And now she's sick.

It's a lot for the family to handle. And me too. So I write.

It's always been my coping mechanism, writing. I'm not a good crier. I hate crying, actually, though I've gotten better at it with age. So I always wind up feeling bad. That I can't/don't cry. Although, I might cry in the closet, or into my pillow. But I hate crying in front of people. Which I think bothers people.

"Why isn't Annie crying?" they ask themselves.

"Because instead she's writing," I say.

So here it is:

Dixie has cancer.

She's my brother's.

He loves her.

He's moving.

I hate it: the moving and the cancer.

It's a good thing we all have each other.