By: Todd

My column is due on the 6th every month.  This month it falls on election day.  It is almost mandatory I do something on my very real, Post Traumatic Trump Disorder.  But I can’t.  I need to write about my PTSD, in the hopes that it makes me stop seeing the impact.

Our puppy died 3 days ago.  It was hit by a car.  It was my fault it was loose.  I saw and heard the impact.  I saw it all happening in slow motion.  I. can’t. get. the. image. out. of. my. head.   Hundreds of times a day it pops in, and then I have a tic.  They come in all forms, but mostly an abrupt and violent movement of my head.  They started a couple hours after the incident.   My son keeps asking me about them.  I can’t possibly tell him.

Did I mention my kids?  They are broken.  My son asked me multiple times not to bring the dog onto the porch just to hang out.  He wants to be mad at me, but I am so broken, that he comforts me.  I don’t deserve that, and I am not sure it is what is best for him.  My daughter…oh boy… she was his chief caregiver.  She never wants a dog again.  She is so deeply sad.  Words cannot do it justice.

My wife says the tics are PTSD and that I need professional help.  And my wife… my lovely wife, is so hurt, but cannot grieve.  She has been forced to take care of us, as we have been inconsolable.  She is our rock.  I keep trying to help her, then… the tics…then she starts taking care of me.  Maybe tomorrow.

I can’t believe how a creature that has only been with us for less than 4 months crawled into our lives so intensely.  He became an instant part of our family.  He loved us so much.  We loved on him so much.  We brought him everywhere we could.  We talked about getting back to him, whenever we were out without him.  He was a rescue.  A sweet cute mutt, with a docile, but entertaining personality.  Oh, and he was smart.  At puppy training, our dog figured out right away how to get the treats.  While the other dunderheads were just panting and wagging, he was sitting, laying, staying, coming, leaving, etc…  He moved out of puppy training two weeks early.  Big-fat-fluffy-cute-head.

And my actions caused his death.  The impact!  My wife is right.  I need some help.

Goodbye sweet Ollie.  We miss you so much.

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