My mom hasn’t taken Festus’ death too well; he was such a good friend to her during her time spent at home with various illenesses this year.
She told me today that he would follow her into the screened-in porch if she went into the house, and then back out again were she to exit. Every incremental movement of hers, he was there. He’d let himself into the porch area by employing his silly unbendable club foot — inserting it between screen reinforcement and door handle, and then pulling. And if that didn’t work, he’d just work the door with his nose until it bent to his will. But he always got inside so that he could lounge on the rug while mom sat outside to smoke.
He’s not there anymore, so she can’t smoke on the porch. Hurts too much, she says. When she wanders around the yard to water her plants, he is no longer there to follow her. His absence is just beginning to take hold and she’s feeling the brunt of it, unable to really articulate why she loved that big old goon so much. He was just a good dog. That’s really all you can say. In your way, sure, but always there. Always. And now he’s not.