Draffit was a long haired black retriever mix from a rescue shelter. He died Wednesday. He was fourteen years old. My son and his wife had him all those years, through two babies and several cats. Old dogs die, I tell myself. Then why am I so sad?
Memories. He was a fat con artist, always hanging around the kitchen or under the table in case anyone dropped anything. He smiled and wagged, not just his tail, but his whole chubby body. He put up with rough handling by a series of grand children, just wagging and moving out of reach of chubby little fingers.
Last year my son asked me to make a portrait of him. He wanted it to be humorous, because Draffit was humorous. He said Draffit was the king of the household. So I painted him as Napoleon Draffit.
They become part of our lives, part of our families, don’t they? So I think it’s O.K. to be sad.