Our flight from Philadelphia got in at 8 last night. We had a half hour to change planes in Cincinnati, to grab a shuttle from one concourse to the other, and during that half hour I got a phone call from the man who had just hit my miniature schnauzer, Lacey.
→[More:]
She was staying at my brother's house while we were on vacation. She and his dog Barley had gotten out and were trying to cross a 4-lane road. She didn't make it. My boyfriend and sister-in-law decided to have her cremated; I wasn't up to making any kind of decisions there in the airport. I don't even remember getting on the plane. I cried the entire 7-hour flight home.
She was the only consistent part of my life during the last 7 years: during the grief after my sister died, during my marriage falling apart, during changing careers and cities and lives.
I miss her feet smelling of corn nuts. Her cold nose sniffing my breath to see how awake I am, to gauge how likely it is that I would be letting her out. Her giant ears like satellites every time the hamster scratched. Her ecstatic whining when I got home from work. The apartment is so small and so quiet without her here. I half-woke once last night and called her, then cried myself back to sleep.
photo by splunge
photo by TheophileEscargot
photo by Kronos_to_Earth
photo by ethylene
