Jeremy’s conversation topics are the definition of random, and this morning was no exception. After discussing Advent and measurement by inches, Jeremy asked how my parents’ dog, Max, died. I explained that as far as I knew he just died, that Grandpa came home from work one afternoon and found him already passed away.
“But what made him die,” he asked in earnest.
“I don’t know,” I said. “It was just his time.”
“I miss Hank,” he said low.
“Me too.”
I can’t believe we’ve been without our coonhound for more than a year. (I was even sad when we sold our Pacifica two months ago because the back interior was speckled with leftover Hank hair.) Hank would’ve been so happy to be in Tennessee again. He would’ve run around the woods past the back yard, tongue hanging out, sniffing out trails and rabbit holes. He’d still be sleeping with Jeremy at night and howling when Chuck played the harmonica.
Every now and again the boys ask for another dog. As I sit here typing to you I confess that I am not ready. Hank’s remains are still stashed away under my bed waiting to be released on a mountainside somewhere, and I can’t for sure say when I’ll even get around to that. Now that the dog hair is gone from our car, his ashes are the last things I have besides pictures.
