I came across a writing assignment that Lucy did early on in 3rd grade (ages and ages ago...5th grade is on the horizon!), a tragic tale about our dog Harry's death. Harry was an awesome dog -- a funny looking terrier mix who loved nothing more than to follow Richard around and drive him crazy. Lucy was five when he died of mysterious causes. A trip to the emergency vet on the day he died yielded a report that read, "Harry is so cute!!!" Super helpful. Anyway...Lucy's description of the sad day, from a distance of three years, is both touching and hilarious, particularly in the way that Richard and I are depicted. While I am described as weeping on the night of Harry's death (true), I clearly recovered very quickly in Lucy's mind. Check out this touching exchange:
"A day later I was still very crestfallen. My mom decided that we should get him cremated. I asked her what it meant. She said it meant to burn him. 'No, no! Don't burn him,' I exclaimed. 'It'll hurt him! No, no! You can't!' My mom replied, 'Honey, I know you love him but we can't let him rot here in the house.'"
Oh. My. God. I know that I tend toward directness, but really? I am quite sure I never said "We can't let him rot here in the house" to my grieving 5-year-old.....
But no worries, Richard comes to the rescue.
"I soon fell asleep with a book over my face. In the morning my dad woke me up with the enticing aroma of pancakes."
So, I am the grim reaper, burning dead dogs, and Richard is Mary F-ing Poppins, whipping up a fresh batch of pancakes to restore happiness to the world. Perfect.
