I wrote this post with this one in mind.
Pet ownership is often a cycle. We look to keep the role of animal companion filled. At the death of a pet, some go out almost immediately to find a new friend, others wait a while, sometimes a long while. But almost always, at some point, another snout is sniffing your crotch.
It is never a replacement for the wet nose that went before. Rather, I imagine it this way. We carry a little pet cemetery somewhere in the vicinity of our spiritual heart. When the new pet tongue starts to lick your hand or puts a head in your lap, flowers start to bloom on the last grave in the line. Each grave has its own individual look and scent, as many varieties of flowers and greens adorn the plots as there were personalities in those they pay tribute to.
Those blooms of love keep a scar from forming. They insure that the grave becomes one of memorializing, not grieving. It is yet another gift from those critters more wiser than humans can ever hope to be.
Meet Benjie whose presence has little buds growing from Hobbes’ little mound of dirt. (He doesn’t sit still for long.)