Garden pal

After it was all over, I sifted through her belongings. The red brush, rarely used, was discarded, along with various medications, a stoneware bowl and her dirty leash. The blankets were washed and folded, for the animal shelter. Everything left behind fit into a grocery bag.

Paltry few remains from a dozen years as the family dog.

It was the end of an era. She came to us lost and skinny, full of heartworm. The vet cured the heartworm and she grew a healthy brown and black coat. She enjoyed our developing rituals, the morning walks, the sweet nothings in the evenings. She gardened with me every spring, lying in the long green grass, her back to the sun, watching me pull weeds or make compost. If she noticed that the children grew up and left home, she never showed it.

Did she know that bloodroot came up every spring? Did she notice the Virginia bluebells along the path? Did she sense that this year, a lowly patch of violets was the most beautiful of all?

In her last winter, she grew senile, once again lost and skinny, hurting in various places. The vet came to our house to put her out of her pain.

I kept her blue collar. She had a spring in her step and those tags had jingled against each other for a dozen years.

You belonged to me.