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.
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”