In November, the closest, most nonjudgmental companion I’ve ever had in my life, walked on. Jackie boy. Jack boy is a Jack boy. Qui. Claw. My sous.
The kitchen, it’s quiet without you right under foot, happy to ask for a sample and to provide eyes if it needed more salt, a crack more pepper, or was just perfect, as is.
The folds of fabric I now lay out to cut for a new blouse or pair of pants don’t have you angling to lay on their pillowy, cotton softness and position your body just so to let me know you were near–that you’d rather I avert my attention for garment to your favorite belly and chin scritches instead. You once looked deeply into my eyes, as if to say, “who needs clothes? I’ve gotten by just fine without” before you, the loyal, appeasing, gentle soul you were, would stretch your neck so I could tie that matching bandana to my outfit around your neck for a strut to work in the library or a jaunt around the block. We had to put on a show, you and me.
And it was a show, however fleeting, wasn’t it?
Someone once told me it’s deeply unfair this relationship–how our longevity doesn’t mesh with the realities of the deeply short lifespans of our canine friends. It’s still too painful to even put to words that you are gone, my Jack boy–plus, if you could speak, you’d remind me no one was listening in this little corner of the internet you sometimes frequent.
“You’ve got no readers, friend,” you’d say. “But, you’ll always have me.”
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