The Man's Liability: Calculating Damages for Unwanted Pregnancy in Texas

In 1990, in my early 20s, I worked for six months in a women's health clinic in Brookline, Massachusetts. Several years later, an active shooter entered those same offices and killed two women who worked the same job that I did, admitting patients. They too were in their early 20s. In 1990, if a woman was fewer than eight weeks along in her pregnancy, we had her reschedule her appointment to when she was eight to ten weeks into it, for medical reasons. Perhaps now, 30 years later, it is not medically inadvisable to terminate a pregnancy at six weeks. But in 1990, a woman wasn't even eligible to have the procedure before she was in her eighth week. 

Pregnancy is a big, big, big, big deal.

In week 23 of my pregnancy I was hospitalized with contractions from preterm labor. Two days later, I was back in the hospital for a week, hooked up to an IV drip for magnesium that put a halt to my contractions, but made me sick and weak. It would be hard to overstate how sick I was on that magnesium drip. Afterwards, I couldn't go back to work. I couldn't go home to my house. I had to stay at my mother's house so she could look after me while I incubated in bed for another 10 weeks. 

As difficult as that was, I did not have maternal sepsis, like my friend A. whose life hung in the balance when she was pregnant with twins. Nor did my water break early, as it did for another woman in the antepartum ward when I was there who spent at least ten weeks upside-down in a hospital bed in a heroic effort to safeguard her pregnancy. I was not as badly off as Amy Schumer, who was acutely sick throughout her pregnancy, in and out of hospitals for dehydration not dozens, but hundreds of times. 

If you talk to women about their experiences being pregnant, you might be surprised by the wide range of stories you will hear. Many love every minute of their pregnancy. Some have to endure magnesium drips, or a total loss of agency, or both. Many experience dangerously high blood pressure and have to stay home and not walk around for a few weeks. For some, the onset of pregnancy brings unexpected diabetes, or a life-threatening immune response to the pregnancy itself. 

 These are the stories of a few privileged white women who had health insurance, support systems, and financial means. They are not examples of single women without health insurance, or 12, 13, or 14-year-old pregnant children. These examples were not pregnancies brought about by rape or incest. 

Birth control fails. All of it. Not all the time, but occasionally. On an ongoing, regular basis, all birth control occasionally fails. 

And then there's that oops moment, when you thought or assumed that he put on a condom, but you  didn't see him do it, so you couldn't be sure he did, and you didn't mention it or ask because you didn't want to be a wet blanket. Or maybe you didn't want to make him mad. Or maybe he was a forceful about it, so he wouldn't have stopped to put a condom on if you had asked him, (but you like him, so it wasn't rape, right?). Maybe he assumed you were wearing something or taking something, because right after, he said, "You've got something, right? You're on the pill or something?" And then, seeing the blood drain from your face, depending on your relationship, your sense of self-worth, and the kind of guy he is, events unfold.

Pregnancy is hard. Birth control fails. Men get women pregnant.

If, as in the state of Texas, a woman cannot safely, legally, or logistically terminate her pregnancy, then she evidently must bear the full weight of the consequences of being pregnant. 

Those consequences include:

1) Being pregnant, and potentially having a miscarriage, carrying a baby to term and having to decide whether to keep it or give it up for adoption.

2) Medical expenses

3) The cost of raising a child: $233,610 (on average in 2021)

4) Lost opportunity costs related to 

        a. Medical complications related to pregnancy (including but not exclusive to time off from work)

        b. For a pregnant child, emotional, mental, educational, and social opportunities, which would translate into career opportunity costs, which would have to be calculated on a case-by-case basis 

        c. For a college or graduate student, the cost of educational and related career opportunities which may b reduced, or overshadowed by childcare and financial priorities related to parenthood.

This list is situational and elliptical in nature. Suffice it to say, under the best of circumstances, a woman who embraces her pregnancy is at least emotionally prepared to address attendant opportunity costs.  A woman or child who does not want to be pregnant and is not prepared to have a baby will nonetheless incur significant opportunity costs. In addition, she will experience her pregnancy and the disadvantages of cumulative lost opportunities as a series of consequences that she is forced to endure by order of the state. 

Against her will, a woman or child in Texas who does not want to be pregnant is forced to remain pregnant. 

And what about the men?  Without their participation, it would be impossible for any woman or child to have an unwanted pregnancy. 

What are his consequences? 

Does he have to pay a woman $10,000 every time he fails to wear condom? Should he pay $10,000 every time his condom tears, or slips off inside a woman's vagina, and results in an unwanted pregnancy? Or should he simply pay $10,000 each time he puts his penis inside of a woman regardless of whether or not she becomes pregnant because his participation could initiate the start of an unwanted pregnancy?

If a woman has a video of herself and a man having sex, and it is obvious and apparent by the reasonable-person standard that the man did not put on a condom, or that his condom slipped off and became lodged inside her vagina, or that the condom tore and was rendered ineffective, should that be admissible in court as evidence that he should be held liable not only for child support but also for his partner's damages?

What do I mean by damages? 

Caveat: I am not a lawyer, nor did I go to law school, but I am a developmental editor of law school books. In that capacity, and through osmosis, I have managed to absorb some basic legal concepts, such as damages and (we'll get to it) negligent torts. I don't know about Texas state law, and I don't know about this, that, and the other, but I do understand the concept of damages, and I do know a negligent tort when I see one.

Damages are what the judge or jury views as the harm done to one person who is suing another person for having caused that harm.  

For example, say I fail to shovel the snow on the sidewalk in front of my house. The snow melts and freezes. It's a disaster waiting to happen, right? And then you walk along, slip on the ice, and break your hip! 

Now, it wasn't my intention that you should break your hip. However, because I neglected to shovel the snow (or salt the icy) in front of my house, you did fall and break your hip. 

A jury would find that my negligence was the cause of your injury. 

Okay, so the jury decides in your favor. Then what? 

Then the jury (or the judge, depending on the format of the hearing) would determine (in civil court, not criminal court) 

    a) the extent of your damages, and 

    b) how much money I should pay to compensate you for the damage I caused.

Your damages include your medical bills, obviously, plus any money lost from your not being able to work while recovering from your injury, plus pain and suffering.  

If you're 60 years old, a broken hip could actually set off a series of events that could kill you. In that case, your damages would be different and probably greater than if you were 30 and made a quick recovery. 

But if you were a professional athlete, and the broken hip destroyed your entire career? Well then, your damages would be pretty darn high and you'd better hope my insurance could cover it. 

Anyway, that's damages. 

And that's a negligent tort (my failure to shovel the snow). 

Does this remind you of anything? 

I mean, sure, the dude wore a condom, but it was the cheap kind, and he knew it, because they had broken before, several times! 

A creditable witness could testify in court that he told them, while laughing, that that he had torn that same  condom--that same expired box of condoms--on three separate occasions, with three different women,  that he could remember. 

Is unwanted pregnancy a form of injury? 

If an unwanted pregnancy can't occur without a man initiating the process, shouldn't he be at least partially liable for the damages to the woman resulting from the unwanted pregnancy? 

I forgot to mention, there are various degrees of liability for damages. If you slip on the sidewalk I didn't shovel, 100%; but if you're trespassing on my property when you slip on the ice in my driveway? You might be awarded 35% of the cost of your medical bills, etc.

Medical bills, lost work, pain and suffering, long-term opportunity costs...  

According to the principle of negligent tort law (far more prevalent in law suits than intentional torts cases), it stands to reason that where the state forces women to carry an unwanted pregnancy to term, it ought to force upon the men a significant burden of responsibility for her damages.

I Know a Lot (and No One Cares)

I am 55 years old. 

55 winters! 55 summers! 55 springs and autumns!

I've been little, I've been big. A teenager, and a young adult! 

I've been middle-aged, and now I'm moving into my seniority. 

I've had friends. I've had lovers. I've had husbands. I've had a child. 

I've had dogs, cats, and horses. 

I've been around for ages!

I've had experiences. 

I read. 

I know a whole lot about a whole lot of things. I could write a catalog of things I know, from A to Z.

I could tell you how to live your life! 

I could provide so much information about so many specific things. Like, how to keep your feet warm when it's super cold: Layers, obviously; 650 down fill (800 is too warm); boots without inserts, not too tight, preferably Sorels; wool socks, not as itchy as you'd think...

Oh, I could go on and on. I know a lot about keeping warm in winter.

I know what bras not to buy.

I know that men's socks are cheaper, and just as good. 

I know that dogs need to be walked, not just brought to the park and left to their own devices. 

Multiple cats need multiple litter boxes.

Tortoises squirm with surprising violence! When you pick them up on the side of the road to keep them from killing themselves, the fury of their jerky movement as they fly out of your arms can be quite a shock. 

But it's still a good idea to know how to help a tortoise cross the road. It's better for your soul. It's better for the tortoise. The key is to have a towel in the car to throw over it, because you don't want to touch the tortoise. And then grip the shell firmly, just below 3 and 9 o'clock. Hold tight.

I know what to feed a dog that has diarrhea. 

I know when to take the cat to urgent care. 

I know how to clean up poop and vomit from most species, and most surfaces, swiftly and efficiently. For carpets, you need a scrubber brush with long bristles, like for cleaning out the tub. Cover the diarrhea with paper towels, then scoop it all up with an inside-out plastic bag, like you're picking up poop at the park. 

For every sort of mess, you need Awesome Orange. Awesome Orange cleaning agent is on the short list of the most important things I know.

Other things on the short list?  

•     Writing is how I discover what I'm really thinking beneath the surface of daily thought, and writing helps me to work through all kinds of unpleasantness.
•     Dogs buoy my happiness and comfort me when I'm blue. I'm someone who needs a dog.
•     Home is super important, even though I frequently imagine being elsewhere. I know I wouldn't actually move unless it felt absolutely right.
•    Exercise can't be optional. That's why I thrive on a farm, where I have to lift buckets, bales, and bags of feed, and push a wheelbarrow loaded with manure across the yard to the big pile.  

I'm also REALLY GOOD with particulars. 

• Don't fill the horses' water bucket more than half way. They'll dirty up the water as soon as they drink, and then you'll have to pour out heavy gallons of water. If you want it to stay clean, just put in 2--3 gallons. They'll drink it, dirty it, and then you're be left with a quart or two to pour out on the lawn. Voila!
• Feed cats wet food, from a can, twice a day to keep them hydrated. Cats generally don't drink enough, esp. males, and frequently die from kidney failure.
• If your cat doesn't show interest in going outside, don't encourage them to experience freedom. Just leave them inside, where they're safe.
• It costs about $800 to fly to London or Paris.
• NEVER, EVER book a flight with a stopover at LaGuardia.
• If you know what you like, shop at Good Will or St.Vinnie's. If you don't know what you like, don't.
• If you're patient, someone will give you a couch. 
• Birds don't become co-dependent if you feed them.  
• Awesome Orange cleans every type of surface except windows.

This is important: RACCOONS ARE OKAY. If they take up residence in your barn and turn it into a nursery, consider feeding the momma some leftovers before you go to bed. Imagine how tired she must be, how she has her cute little hands full. How hard it is for her to go out and scavenge for food with five or six little bandits in tow. She'll eat your offering of leftovers night after night. And then, one night, when you feel you've really developed a bond, she won't come to take the food you put out for her so thoughtfully. She'll have wandered off. And you'll wonder if she got hit by a car, or just decamped. You might see one of her kids dead at the end of your driveway and want to cry. Your husband may gingerly move the small creature to somewhere near and discrete where its mother may grieve it in private. And you'll feel sad. You'll hope that there were four or five other babies, and that they are with her and safe. 

You'll learn that raccoon come, set up nurseries, have babies, need food, and disperse. Because they are wild, not yours. And that is okay. Nothing wrong with raccoons.

My point is, I know SO MUCH. 

But here's the thing--the crazy thing about being so old and knowing so much..?

(Are you ready?)

I'm about to tell you a devastating truth. 

(Here it comes.)

NOBODY CARES. 

Not only do they not care, but they--

(By "they," I mean, EVERYBODY.)

THEY find it incredibly annoying when I suggest a better way, or offer the slightest morsel of unsolicited guidance and advice. 

As far as my 17-year-old is concerned, anything I might suggest is cursed by my endorsement. 

Why, when I could spare them so much effort and trouble, do people insist on muddling through? Why do the want to make their own mistakes when I could spare them that inconvenience? 

It's not like their learning curve is going to flatten out all of a sudden and leave them with nothing to do! 

Even I don't know everything. 

But I do know a lot! 

    

    

Why We Need CRT

Some white people are saying that critical race theory ("CRT") should not be taught in schools because it teaches white kids to feel guilty and bad about being white. 

In that case, we should also not teach kids feminist critical theory--which is very sneaky and insidious--and might come across in subtle ways, such as informing kids that women did not have the right to vote in the US until 1920. 

That's kind of a jaw-dropper. How are boys and girls supposed to feel about that horrid little turd of American history?  

Kids do NOT need to know that women could not own property (like, their own home) in their own name until 1839, when Mississsippi allowed that a woman could own title to property in her own name, but only with her husband's permission. 

Because that's just embarrassing. 

Little girls should not have to learn about Ruth Bader Ginsburg, who, while very cute and all, has a biography that includes a number of unfortunate facts. 

 For example, after law school, despite being #1 in her class,  no law firm in New York would hire her. 

Girls and boys don't need to be burdened with that kind of intel. 

a) Boys might experience guilt by association. 

b) Girls might wonder what the heck is wrong with New York City that it wouldn't hire Ruth Bader Ginsburg(!?). 

New York City has enough problems. Now, in the 2020s, it shouldn't have to answer to the consternation of agitated young girls across the country who wonder why the heck New York wouldn't hire Ruth Bader Ginsburg(?!?).

We don't need no feminist critical theory.

We don't need:

Critical Race Theory.

Critical Gender Theory. 

Critical Feminist Theory.

Modern Critical Theory. (Metanarratives! Rationality!)

Post-Modern Critical Theory. (Foucault! Lacan!) 

It's all. Very. Uppity. 

Why so critical? Don't you like your country? 

Can't we just all agree to get along? 

Water under the bridge!

I can never un-know that the British  abolished slavery in 1807, but the land of the free and the brave did not officially abolish slavery until 1863. 

Why know unhappy things?

We don't want to make kids sad!

...Or...

.Do we...?

BAMBI. Probably my most painful early memory.

Until DUMBO.  Why not just cut off an earlobe or pull out a fingernail and be done with it? 

And children's literature? 

Hello?!?!

What the heck is with children's literature?

THE GIVING TREE. 

CHARLOTTE'S WEB. 

OLD YELLER.  (Sobbed, sobbed, sobbed.)

THE VELVETEEN RABBIT. (Heard about it, refused to read.)

THE YEARLING. (Take the other earlobe, please!)

ALL of the Brothers Grimm. 

"The Little Match Girl." 

What were they thinking???

Skip literature! 

Skip history! 

Skip the horrors and tragedies! 

Skip vegetables and organ meats! Who the said they were good for you? I want names! 

Critical Race Theory. It's not a terrorist movement. It's just what happened. And it might make you sad. It might change the way you think about lots of things. 

That's what education does.

Eat your vegetables.

Super Animal Sentience

I'm setting a timer and giving myself exactly one hour to write this post. There will be grammatical mistakes, etc., but that's just the way it has to be.

This post is about salient moments I've observed of super animal sentience.

Story #1. Betsy manipulates Zarya into abandoning the front seat.

Zarya, our new dog, was a very large, very entitled, strikingly good-looking puppy. Even though she was the newcomer and the junior dog, she quickly took over the front seat from Betsy, Border Collie / Lab, 12 years old at the time. We'd had Betsy for 11 years. While Betsy was always very smart, she was never especially self-confident, with no sense of entitlement whatsoever. So, Zarya is riding shotgun, and Betsy is in the back (of the minivan).  Also in the back of the minivan are folded up paper shopping bags, for shopping purposes. But Zarya, the puppy, viewed the bags, like everything else, as toys for her own amusement. When she couldn't ride up front, she would amuse herself in the back shredding my grocery bags. 

That's the scene: Zarya is in front. Betsy is in back. And here's the super smart thing that Betsy did: She feigned interest in shredding the paper bags. She had never known the slightest interest in these bags, but now she made gestures of playing with them--just enough to make a noise that Zarya would hear and think, "Oh! Betsy's shredding the bags! I want to shred the bags!" 

So of course, not one to be left out of any fun activity, Zarya vacates her seat of privilege to go check out what's happening with the grocery bags. 

At which point, Betsy abandons the bags and takes over the front seat just vacated by Zarya. 

In other words, the whole rustling the bags thing was a total manipulation by Betsy of Zarya. Betsy played Zarya. She came up with this scheme to lure Zarya into the back of the van with the singular goal of taking Zarya's spot up front. 

Story #2. Belle Performs Her Best Trick to Show Up Tanner (and Get a Treat)

I had my two Quarter Horses, Belle and Tanner, at liberty in the round pen without any halters on them or tack of any kind. My focus had been on Tanner, who was in more need of training than Belle. I hadn't had Tanner very long, so I was still figuring out how much training he had had. One that thing I had recently stumbled upon while grooming him was that someone had taught him to bow. I had unintentionally given him the cue, and he lowered his head way down between his two front legs, and drew his left front hoof back, bending at the knee (as they say). I had never seen a horse do that in real life before, so I was pretty delighted and amazed. 

So here's the scene: I've got treats in my pocket. I cue Tanner to bow. He bows. I give him a treat. Belle is standing in front of me, watching. After Tanner does his impressive trick, and I give him a treat, I look at Belle, and either say out loud or in my head, "Too bad you don't have such an impressive trick, Belle!" But then, without missing a beat, Belle carries herself over to the mounting block in the middle of the round pen. She positions herself next to it, but a few feet away, and then, with no prompting or cues of any kind from me, she performs a perfect side-pass over the mounting block. 

For the uninitiated, this is a very technically difficult and sophisticated trick. The horse has to walk sideways--the outside front foot crossing over the inside front foot, and the back feet tracking a parallel course. Foot over foot in this manner she has to move front and back feet in a highly coordinated way so the whole side view of her body is moving evenly in one direction like a single wave. And the mounting block passes neatly underneath her belly. 

This was a trick I had taught her a year earlier. We hadn't practiced it since the previous summer. But somehow, not only did Belle remember how to execute the trick--what is more impressive to me is that it occurred to her that it was the most technically impressive trick that she knew, and also that it was comparable in its complexity to Tanner's deep bow. 

I mean, what the hell!? This horse, Belle, she had no rope attached to her. She was functioning completely of her own volition. 

I was absolutely gobsmacked. I gave her a treat, of course, and a pat. But I wanted to burst into tears. Because it was offing amazing, what she had just shown me. 

Story #3. Squirrel. 

I fed the squirrels over the winter. February was deadly cold for weeks on end. Every outdoor creature suffered. I fed the birds. I might as well feed the squirrels. I bought bird seed. I bought critter food. I kept the bird feeders full.  I poured the critter food out in a mounded a trail along the tops of the deck rail. The squirrels feasted. 

In the spring, when the snow melted, the squirrels were able to their caches of black walnuts. Our property has many black walnut trees. So I was sitting at my desk, looking at my computer, working, when I looked out my window. 

Important to note: my window is on the opposite side of the house from the deck where I fed the squirrels. 

I'm looking at my computer, when I see out of the corner of my eye, a squirrel. I see him, and then he's gone. And then I see his paw, and then gone. He's jumping up, grabbing onto something to hold, losing his purchase and falling back down to the ground a couple of feet below my window. I look squarely at the window and watch. He jumps up, gets a good temporary purchase, looks right at me. He's holding a large walnut in his mouth. He's waving one arm. I'm not saying he's waving. I'm not saying he's not waving. He's waving an arm. He's got a walnut in his mouth. He sees that I see him. I smile. 

And then he lets himself drop back down to the ground, and that's it. He's gone. 

Now, I'm not foolish enough to tell you, or to insist, that he was there for the sole purpose of showing me that had his own walnut. You can think whatever you like. I'm just saying, that's never happened before.

I was happy for him. 

Story #4. The Poodle.

I've got 5 minutes left, so I can't even read this over to make sure it's not awful, but I have so little time!

The poodle, HANK, you may remember him. If you knew him, you wouldn't forget him. There was so much to that poodle. 

He would feign sleep. Appear to be napping. Unconscious. But as soon as I closed the bathroom door, he knew that he too had FIVE MINUTES in which to commit as many crimes and misdemeanors as poodle possible. Any food on the counter--gone. Access to the trash? Great! 

You can get a lot done in five minutes. 

I fell for it every time. Every. Single. Time. 

Damn poodle, I miss him so much. 

I know I have more stories, but I don't have more time. 

I have to go edit a manuscript. Ha! Isn't that grimly ironic. 

Good Grief! is a very odd phrase

Good grief! What an odd phrase. If I weren't sunk in it, I'd research the etymology.

But I am. Sunk. In grief. 

Writing is an effort, but everything is an effort, so, I may as well write about this fleeting phase, since writing is how I typically overcome acute bouts of mental squalor. 

I know from past experience that in two or three days, this dense gravity of grief will dissipate. Until then, air is water. I am swimming.

Our surviving dog, Zarya (or Z) is grieving, too. She didn't come in to wake me up this morning--to my room, where Betsy slept. 

A couple days before, I noticed a hand-sized pouch of fluid in Betsy's abdomen. I noticed blood in her urine.  Betsy was struggling to keep up on our walks. But she would still eat. She was still waking me up early to let her outside to pee. She was still leaping unassisted into the van. 

Three months earlier, ultrasound imaging revealed a cancer in her bladder. The vet said that in a few days or a few weeks, Betsy would no longer be able to pass urine. At that point, things would go downhill fast. We should be prepared to take her to urgent care quickly.

But Betsy lived for another three months as if she hadn't received that memo. She continued to go on walks, eat her kibble; steal, hide, and privately relish Zarya's chew bones. Most importantly, she continued to pee.

Betsy continued to accompany me on my chores and patrol the property. Sometimes, when she seemed a bit slow and oldish, I'd bend down, wrap my arms around her, and kiss her face a bunch of times. As though that were tonic enough to cure what ill'd her, Betsy spring to her feet and prance about, wagging her tail in big happy circles. 

On the morning she didn't wake up before six to go outside to pee, Zarya woke me up instead--earlier than she normally would have. 

Everything was off with Betsy, and Zarya knew it. 

Z seemed nervous and silly, the way children behave when something very grownup and serious is happening that they can't quite understand. 

Betsy managed to get up an hour later and go for a halting walk, during which she seemed to be saying her goodbyes to the snow, sky, trees, dirt, and every familiar smell. She left little round pockets of blood in the snow.

This was what the veterinarian warned me about three months earlier: the rapid decline. I could assume that the next day, New Year's Day, Betsy would neither eat nor perhaps be able to get up at all. 

I thought of the fluid gathered in her now distended abdomen, the bloody urine, the discomfort and pain that Betsy couldn't tell me about.

I thought about what it would mean to take her to Urgent Care during Covid in that predictable moment of crisis. We would have to be socially distant as the vet techs strapped Betsy to a stretcher and took her away from us in the parking lot.  

It should not happen like that.

I called Journey's Home, two compassionate veterinarians who euthanize dying pets at home, making a sad event as low-stress for everybody as possible. 

The vet arrived at noon on December 31, 2020, the last day and, as far as I was concerned, the coup de grace of a seriously lousy year. But of course, I was one of the very lucky ones. For millions of other people, 2020 would do so much worse than see a beloved old dog die from a normal end-of-life disease.

But grief strikes when the iron is hot, whether or not you're in luck.

In grief, I tread water. 

I swim to the barn. I swim through my chores. I swim to the dog park to take Zarya, also grieving, for a swim. 

One nice thing about Betsy being gone, Z and I can take longer, faster walks at the park. So it surprised me this morning when Zarya insisted that we take our usual, truncated route. Z doesn't want any more  change. 

At the park, Z focuses intently on her ball. I kick it, she blocks it. I throw it, she catches it. If any dog threatens to take her it, she growls at the dog. 

That is all Z thinks about until we get back to the car. 

And then Z starts swimming again.

Driving home, the radio is tuned to a series of outtakes from comics. I listen, and sometimes laugh out loud. 

Laughing lifts me out of my grief for about 10 seconds. It's like being temporarily carried aloft on the back of a sea turtle. But soon I slip off the turtle and have to swim on my own.  

Sometimes, to rest, I let myself sink. But I have to breathe, so I must soon pull myself back up all the way to the surface, where a gasp of air feels surprisingly good. For about 10 seconds.

In grief, the mind is not super sharp. For one thing, my oxygen saturation level frequently drops before I remember to breathe again. 

Zarya, treading water beside me in the car, forgets to ask for attention. Remembering how restorative affection was for Betsy, I make a point of stroking Z's chest. At first, she doesn't respond. After a few minutes, she drapes her paw on my arm. 

Z's not supposed to be riding shotgun in the truck, per my husband. Oh, well. 

Something so sad about a dog so sad.  

I would like Zarya to sleep in my room, which had been Betsy's sanctuary. But Betsy taught Zarya not to enter our room except under certain conditions. One of those conditions was that both Betsy and I had to be there. And now, clearly, Betsy was not there. So Z won't come into my room unless I demand it, and then she looks really miserable. So, I put a large stuffed Siberian tiger bought at a yard sale on the big new dog bed that I bought for Z.  

The Siberian tiger is better than nothing. 

I moved around all of the furniture in my room yesterday so I wouldn't have to look at the space in the middle that was Betsy.  

I have three unused perfectly good dog beds. Should I give them to a shelter? I don't want to think about it now. 

How long does a dog grieve?  Will Z wake up in two or three days and feel perfectly alright?

Good grief, time moves awfully slowly when you're swimming.