My dog died.

She really did. Or, rather, we put her down. I'm gone in NY, so I didn't have to bring her to the vet (she hates vets). And I don't have to throw away her food bowl, toys. It's harder for the rest of the family.

a poem written by friend and author Russell Hill

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Bella

She ran in the darkness after a ball I could not see,
into the sea I could not see, came back
and dropped it at my feet, waiting,
vibrating like a tuning fork.
She ran into the lake in the evening,
the lights at Zephyr Cove winking on,
came out, shook icy water on us,
waiting for the ball to be thrown again.
In the park in the darkness
she ran until my arm was tired.
She sat in my truck, her head out the window,
and when I went into the store
she moved to the driver’s side,
as if she might decide to drive off.
Her muzzle grew grey
but always the sweet face, the silky ears,
waiting at the bottom of the stairs
which way, which way she asked.
She watched television
only to keep someone company,
became from time to time, ellen’s dog,
sofia’s dog, emily’s dog, christopher’s dog.
She lay at the corner of the coffee shop
and raised her head
to those who bent to tell her,
you’re a good dog, aren’t you?
Best dog, black dog, sweet dog, big dog,
dog of our hearts.

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