Nose Prints

Now that the days are becoming longer, the sun slants into the house at different angles.  When it streams through the front door, we can see any markings on the glass:  finger prints, streaks, stains.

Nose prints.

Both ottoman-shaped dog and ancient decrepit dog would regularly leave smudges as they gazed out into the street, surveying their domain. The nose prints were a sign of their presence -- their attentive, protective activity as part of our familial pack.  Like errant socks on the family room floor or a semi-squashed tube of toothpaste on the counter, the nose prints were indicative of the mundane daily activity of the household.  Sniff, smudge. Bark bark bark. We are here.

It's been nearly six months since ottoman-shaped dog crossed the bridge, and a mere six weeks since aged dog joined him.  It seems like yesterday, and forever, since they have been here. I still feel a strange roominess in the blankets when I stretch out in bed at night; Thorbert would squash everything down near my feet with his weight, and it is odd not to feel the usual resistance in the blankets as I try to find room for my legs.  I still look at the chaise lounge at the foot of the bed if I get up in the middle of the night or when I get up in the morning, expecting to find Daisy resting there with all her feet sticking up. It's still a surprise sometimes to find their usual resting places empty -- I forget they are no longer here, and am reminded only by their obvious absence.

My heart has vacancies where Thorbert and Daisy once resided, spaces that are uniquely shaped to them. I am still learning how to work around these holes that are part of the terrain now. I miss their comforting presence when I am sad or angry or lonely. I wish I could run my hands across their warm furriness. The vacuum cleaner is probably relieved not to have to tackle so much shed fur, though.

I miss them.

I have washed the nose prints off of the front door.