Hello, Kat . . . and thank you for taking the time to send me your thoughts.

First of all, my sincerest, heartfelt condolences on the loss of your own "little heart". If it's any consolation, please know that the depth of your grief reaction is very much mirroring my own.

I, too, have been bothered over the past two days with stomach pain. ( Annie died on August 31st. ) My first thought was, "Oh, great, now something's wrong with ME ?" I, however, am 63 years old so, naturally, I found myself starting to wonder if there was something serious going on in there.

I'm just playing it by ear . . . It's not debilitating or anything like that, it's just "unusual". I'm hoping that it resolves on its own.

As far as that birthday dinner goes, I gave my regrets and did not attend. I asked my friends to please postpone it but so far there has been no further talk of an alternate date . . . and that suits me just fine, too.

It's always very gratifying to hear from a fellow introvert ! I, too, MUCH prefer solitude to the company of a lot of people. I always have. And now that I'm grieving, it's much easier to be on my own clock ( I'm a retired teacher. ) than it is to be accommodating the schedule of other people.

When Annie died, the most intense manifestation of my grief was the severe insomnia that hit me with a vengeance. And I'm not just talking about only being able to sleep a couple of hours every night . . . I mean ZERO sleep. Period. I went 72 straight hours with no sleep . . . and massive anxiety with racing thoughts, to boot.

My doctor prescribed some sleep meds for me to weather this crisis but they didn't work.

Nothing worked. I was missing my little cuddle bug and her soft snoring so much that my comfy bed had become a place of profound emptiness and sorrow.

One night, in the wee small hours, I had a bit of a brainwave.

I started to look online for a Dachshund stuffed animal that had the same Black and Tan coloration as Annie did. And I FOUND ONE at Amazon.

I can't believe that I'm actually admitting this, but figuring that I had nothing to lose, I ordered it.

It arrived three days later.

It's just a little bit smaller than Annie was but the shape of its chest and little round bum is pretty darned close to perfect . . . Enough to satisfy that aching sense memory that was keeping me awake.

So, here I am, a 63 year old retired professional . . . sleeping ( and napping ) with a little stuffed Dachshund.

And would you believe that it's worked ! I'm sleeping very peacefully again . . . Actually, my body has begun to crave sleep. Occasionally in the middle of the afternoon, too, and I'm just following its lead. After all, I figure that I'm healing. Not only from the major body blow that I took when Annie died, but also from the eighteen months of anguish that preceded her death as I tried everything medically possible to deal with the Cushing's and its many opportunistic complications.

I'm just oh, so very tired now. And if Annie's little "stand-in" enables me to relax into the memories of the comfort with which she blessed me, then it looks like I might be sleeping with a stuffed animal for the rest of my life . . . or until I get another Dachshund, anyway. ( ! ! ! )

Now that I'm able to sleep again, the intensity of my grief is beginning to ebb a bit, too.

I try to keep reminding myself that she was ( and still is ) very dearly loved, protected and nurtured. I made sure that she had the best veterinary care available and I prioritized my budget so that her needs came first. In other words, as my friends keep reminding me, I did GOOD. ( lol )

Would I want her back ? Is that what this aching, yearning grief is all about ? When I can be brutally honest with myself, I can now answer no to that question. Not if it meant that she would have to endure one more millisecond of the limited mobility and ultimate weakness that characterized her final months. The heat intolerance, the panting, the exercise intolerance . . . it was a real challenge to come up with strategies to keep her comfortable. But I did it.

And that's what I cling to ( along with Annie's "stand-in" ) when my sorrow and grief starts to get the better of me.

I gave her a wonderful life . . . That's something to be proud of.

I hope that I can really remember to believe that some day.

Thank you again, Kat, and please feel free to stay in touch . . .