My dog Luke was 11. He had a good life it just hurt because through all the trials and tribulations by family has been through with my addiction he was always there for a lick or gentle nudge. We got him when I was 16 so he was a connection to that part of my life when everything was fun and the future was a great mystery to be solved. Before heroin wrecked all that.
I hope you and your family have a wonderful holiday herby! Ill be thinking about you.
But each memory is a death in and of itself. A memory, it turns out, is simply a retelling of the last retelling which was a retelling of the last and on and on...we all know how that goes, trained in childhood by the game telephone. You whisper a sentence in someone's ear (in this case, your own) and they in turn whisper what they heard to the next person and by the time it winds its way back to you, it is a new sentence altogether. And so I ask you, boy of my flesh and my imagination, what do I still hold? And what of that is true? Strangely, the most overlooked sense of our five senses is the strongest in the end. I know your scent. It appears not to be a memory but perhaps deeper--a recognition of any mammal of her own offspring."Is it ever finished, our argument with death? Our dispossession? There is, I think, no way to complete it. It becomes our work no matter how we approach it. Our work, in the face of this unalterable fact, is the always ever bringing back of remembering."