Moving On

It's hard to imagine that our house would be so quiet now. After all, we have two small children and a boisterous golden lab. But it is. When the phone rings now, I don't have to rush to get it before Kirby starts howling. I don't hear the clacking of his paws on our tile floor. It's quiet without his soft pawing at the back door and without his soft yelping every time he dreams.

Our vocabulary has changed. I find myself still beginning to tell Rob to let Kirby out before he comes to bed. We are having trouble saying our dog instead of our dogs.

Bennett is okay. Thanks to our friend Rani, she now has a wonderful book about doggie heaven that she loves to read. She was so happy that our friend Mary brought cupcakes over because, "that's what all good Southerners do when there's a death in the family." Will still calls for "Kuh-bee," but every day that changes to less and less often.

Rob and I are sad. We miss him. But the one affected the most is our other dog, Meg. She is missing him terribly. She seems down and depressed. She runs outside looking for him. She lays down where his cage used to be. She barks at us like she is desperately trying to ask us what happened. So we are giving her lots of extra belly rubs. We have taken her to the dog park to let her play. She is getting tons of extra kisses from the kids. But I know she is sad.

So are we all, Meg-girl. So are we all.