It’s strange how your dog (child) dying makes you want to move away. And makes you believe in heaven. She’s gone. Her bed’s gone. Her bowl’s gone. Her food and her medication. Her smell. Gone in the bin or in her grave or out the door. The one you walked and fed and held in bed, hers and yours. Little mundane chores of love, that you once begrudged. Complained about. The one you didn’t go on long holidays for. The one who’s smell you equated to home, no matter how objectively bad. The one who loved you so wholly. The one who you loved that way too, right back. The one who’s body touched yours more than almost anyone else, her back against you in bed, her nose on your forehead.
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