A woman jogged past my house yesterday, paused at one of our enormous overgrown beach rose bushes, pulled a single pink petal off, popped it in her mouth, and jogged off down the sidewalk.
Sweet little neighbor boys made us sympathy cards. "I'M SORRY CLOVER" said one of them.
It feels like he's still here somewhere. It feels like he's behind the forsythia bush, in front of the fireplace, under the porch.
My new hobby is buying flowers and planting them in the many spots around the yard where he'd taken to spending most of his time over the last couple of months. That dog loved having a back yard he could defend with his loud barking and relax in all day, moving from one shady spot to another and even into the night if we'd let him. You could see him glowing slightly, settled in the middle of the garden behind the coreopsis or curled around a lily plant.