I'm not too good at anniversaries. If you have crummy, bummy memories of something that happened nine years ago or a year ago, what's the point in dwelling on them?
Moving on. Healthier.
Then, I thought: My little Bean Sprout died a year ago tomorrow, and I've had a weepy face all day. Press on my cheeks too hard, and tears squirt out.
I'm not unhappy. Just remembering, and missing, him. A lot.
But then! There's this tornado, virago, volcano of a new puppy in my house. She's been here almost a year. Bartlett, the pogo stick. She is lovely but not necessarily loving. This morning she demonstrated that she is Perfectly Good at giving little kiss-licks to my nose. She eats her food without prodding (or hogging), and does her stuff outside. Plays with her chase-fetch toy like a crazy lady. (That tires her out, and a tired dog is a good dog.)
She's gonna be great. I just never thought it would take this long.
Bean Sprout was a little pookie powder puff from the day we brought him home.