Remembering Spot

I buried Spot yesterday.

Planted her in the strawberry patch in the side yard where we can see her grave from our bedroom window.

Her death, while long anticipated, was more difficult to deal with than I expected. She’d been dying for a long time.

I thought I’d be ready. After all, she was nearly 16 years old, and not our only dog. Gaunt and unsteady on her feet for the past couple of months, she looked like the walking dead.

We’d gotten her from a litter in Hardin a month before my mother died, and my daughter Leslie house sat for us while we went to Mom’s funeral in Florida.

I sti...