The first night...

Coming home today was hard. I knew Friedman was gone and in a loving family's home. But walking down the steps to my apartment, smelling the wooden scents of my apartment and expecting a mellow dog to stare at me when I unlocked the door, but the towels that draped his crate would have been chewed up from his two-hour tamper tantrum after I locked the door and went to work. I watched the season finale of '24' alone and there was no headstrong presence to ram their body into my side and make room for himself on the couch.

I have decided how essential it is for me to get my ass back into journalism. But right now, it's all about healing. I plan on volunteering for Weimaraner Rescue, but right now, it's all I can do to make sure the carpet is clean of the towels he ripped to shreads, the bits of dog food in the kitchen are swept up and the 30-foot-long leash outside is boxed up and ready to go when I move out of this apartment.

So, like a dog, I'm sitting now with all of this frustrated energy. Two vodka tonics dulled the pain, but now what am I going to do for the next seven months? Take on another technical writing job to pay for the bills that I racked up when I bought this great dog? Hone my journalism skills by immersing myself in books like Gay Talese's new one or David Remnick's book, 'Reporting'? Splurge for a gym membership? Try to run another triathalon? Volunteer at the Weimaraner rescue?

Right now - all I want to do is sit and listen to Whiskeytown and Beck and hope the cliche of 'Time heals all wounds' eventually reaches me.