I've decided to use this space over the next month to tell some old stories. Stories that need to escape from my brain.
Franco Shutt. A classy mutt.
When I was young and tone and newly married I insisted we rescue a dog. And Jason said we absolutely would not, could not, should not get a dog. Before our 1st anniversary Franco moved in. And I fed him and walked him and forced all 60 pounds of him into the bathtub to wash him.
And who did he love? Jason of course. Calm and easy Jason. Franco followed him around the house. Slept on the floor next to Jason's side of the bed. They communicated telepathically about walks and treats and outdoor adventures. Franco would cry and whine if he was ever separated from Jason.
Two and a half years ago, I was two months pregnant. My head had been aching for two days so I climbed into a hot bath. Franco pushed open the bathroom door and laid next to the tub. "Odd," I said.
In the morning I miscarried at seven weeks. Franco hadn't left my side.
And he is still here. Laying at my feet while I type this.