Strawberry wasn’t actually a dog. She was a tortoiseshell barn kitten I picked from a litter at a distant cousin’s farm when I was around 5 years old. My family told me much later, they were all mildly horrified that I had picked what they considered the absolute ugliest kitten available. 

To quote Anakin Skywalker in Star Wars: Episode II Attack of the Clones : I fucking hate sand. 

Or whatever it is that he says while flirting with Natalie Portman. 

I stopped talking about them outside of therapy as well.
An occasional facebook post of Yadi or Finnick. A memory. A reminder of their life and a hint of their absence. 

But no grief. Grief is too heavy. 

If a client came to me now, all these years later, asking if they should get a pediatric neuter German Shepherd puppy of unknown history from a college student off craigslist?
Thank god I didn’t know any better. 

The more I try to ignore Grief, the more I stop thinking about Yadi. And Grief gets louder. It rattles windows, throws pots, and flickers the lights in my head. 

So, he were are.

This year, I think I’d like to be like Yadi.
More gentle, more firm. More patience, more self-understanding. More kindness, and occasionally more yelling out the window.

I couldn’t let Yadi & Company go. 

I am indebted to Yadi, and all of the other dogs who raised me into the human I’m still becoming.