Today is the three year anniversary of my dog Katie’s death. I still miss her. I don’t miss having a dog. I miss Katie. After many years of taking care of someone—two children, three dogs, three cats, two fish tanks, an assortment of rodents—when she died it felt like time to be without the need to think about another being for a while. But I still miss her.
Now I have a ceramic sculpture of a small red dog, about five inches long, sitting on my dining room table. Sometimes I pet the dog’s head. I often talk to her and tell her about my day. After Katie died, I told a friend who had cared for her, who had known her from family walks along the cliffs in Duncan’s Cove where we had lived. (The children had always asked if that “red dog” would be there to join them. And she usually was, eager for their company.) A few days later my friend brought me a present. It was a ceramic red dog, made by her fourteen year old daughter when she was nine. The sculpture looks just like Katie. Has her inquisitive, intelligent, knowing and playful expression. I was (and am) very grateful for this gift. I still miss Katie’s warm body and quirky ways but she is still here, having meals with me every day.
Katie at fifteen, a year before she died.