A year ago today I crawled under the coffee table and took this photo of my old man sleeping peacefully, tongue out and dried like smoked salmon. I had no idea when I was taking this that three hours later we would be coming back home, bewildered and shocked and heartbroken, without him. I only had him 3 years but I fell hard for him.
I do realize that I’m a 36-year-old woman getting weepy about “just” a dog when there are far larger issues plaguing the royal “us,” but I think most of you would agree that no pet is “just” anything. And if any of you have any barrel- or deep-chested dogs, I recommend you educate yourselves on bloat (gastric dilatation and volvulus/GDV). I didn’t know what it was when it happened to us, and in hindsight I couldn’t have prevented it, but it can’t hurt to know not to get them riled up after eating, not to feed them too much in one meal.
I miss him. In his place, but not replacing him, is this insane Frenchie who entertains the hell out of us. But I’m remembering Arthur today.