Missing

I'm missing Oliver tonight and had a good cry over the sight of his dog bowl still on my kitchen floor. I thought about my last moments with him; what his fur felt like, the weight of his big "porkchop" ears, and I cried.  And it felt good. I hope I don't forget what his fur felt like ever.

A coworker of mine teared up when I told her the news today. I was very matter-of-fact about it, telling her how old he was and that he'd had a great life, and that I was so grateful I could be there with him at the end. "You're being very zen about it" she said, impressed. That's something I have noticed lately about my recent losses; my cousin Susan, my relationship, my dog. For some reason, I'm a bit zen, which is not typical of me, or at least, I didn't think it was typical.

And then I see his bowl and the time is right for a good cry and a session of sadness.

I got a call the other day from Forget Me Not, the company who would cremate Oliver. She explained how it's done, told me the ashes would arrive at Avon Street on Friday. I was very professional, since I was at work, alone in the photo studio having this conversation. She explained that I could have Oliver put in the crematorium next to another dog. They ashes would not mix, but they would be together. Or I could pay more and have him cremated alone. With another dog, I told her. I don't want him to be alone. She ended it with "We'll take good care of him for you" And that was all it took. That little bit of kindness from a stranger sent me into tears.

It's an important thing to remember, how a little sentence can mean something to someone. "We'll take good care of him for you".

Oliver's bowl when it was shiny and new back in 2006.