Pulga

September 1997 - March 2011

Even heroes part one day... Yesterday, was Pulga's day...

This is a sad post. One of longing and deep sadness for the goodbyes we say forever and for the goodbyes we sometimes don't have the chance to say. One of accepting nothing lasts forever. One better written in my nostalgic native language, Portuguese. And so I have.

Pulga means flea in Portuguese. It can be used to describe minuscule things of huge personality. Nothing could define Pulga better than this. We found her sitting on a wall, calmly, smaller than my hand (and believe me, my hands are small), eyes closed with mucus (one eye never fully recovered), ears rotting at the tips (the round ears you see are the result of that!). She required treatment, food and cuddles. And she got it all. She had to be given medication every 3 hours for 3 weeks; I got the night shift. She would climb up our legs and bite our hands to tell us she was there. She slept in the dog's bed, a little tiny thing bang in the middle, and the dog stared adoringly for she adopted her. She loved the dog more than she ever loved any of us, to be honest. She was funny and cute and feisty and sweet in the same measure. And I could go on like this in English, half translating what I've written before, and none of this feels mine, for my sadness is somehow still in a different language. I miss her. I did say goodbye and I still miss her. She made me happy and a better person and a happier person and she is no longer. And I have to live with it, and I do, but it hurts today.