I had to get Dennis the dachshund new food and water bowls.
He had been using the bowls left behind by our previous dachshund, Nikolaus.
Nik would have been twenty years old this week, if he were still here. He made it to sixteen.
I can see his little grave from my kitchen window. Two days ago the spot was covered in snow. Three tiny sparrows were feeding there or maybe just pecking at the snow for a drink of water. In spring a big rabbit feeds there.
Nik would not mind. He was always an easy old soul.
So, I have been using his bowls for Dennis, who is two.
One of the bowls was cracking (the food bowl; one cannot keep water in a bowl that is cracking).
When I set it it down for Dennis’s supper a couple of days ago, I must have done it a bit too hard: the bowl broke into half a dozen pieces.
So.
New bowls for Dennis.
I knew this was the right one as soon as I saw the wording on it.
It is the truth for Dennis, pampered little autocrat that he is.
It is the truth for me.
Because I have loved and been loved by dogs.
In return for their sustenance, they sustain. They give their whole selves.
Even hardheaded dachshunds.
My six-year-old granddaughter refers to him as “rascally Dennis”
lit bits and pieces 
Fran, this story captures twenty years and one moment all in a whoosh of joy and connection of solidarity for all who have ever loved a dog. Have I ever told you that before my schnoodles I had two Doxies? One was named Chloe, a red, and the other was Roxie, a Black and Tan. I need to write the story of Chloe’s headstone, but Roxie is buried right outside my reading room window at the edge of my butterfly garden, where a concrete dachshund marks her burial place. I, too, see her little grave from my window. And you won’t believe it, but………….yes. Rabbits feed there, too, on the wildflowers ad other flowers and herbs fennel that is planted there for the black swallowtails. This piece on Dennis today melts my heart and I know Nick would love that you were able to use his bowl for his brother for this long.
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My dear Kim…a concrete dachshund statue marks Nik’s garden grave, too. The little head poked above the snow this week, just like a determined dachshund saying “remember me”…no chance of forgetting, little beloved one…I didn’t know about Chloe and Roxie and the grave so I am sitting here in complete awe. Yet again. Yet again!! ❤️
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