Appalachia Year

When you're 82, you get toys for Christmas. Heidi, my grandparents' dog, wasn't terribly excited about my grandpa's new remote controlled car.

I've really only had four or five real visits "home" since my dog died in June, and I feel guilty how quickly I've grown used to cracking the front door without fear of a slippery little dachshund escaping. How thoughtlessly I leave food on once nose-able or lick-able surfaces. How no nails on tile greet me when I come home at an ungodly hour, and how no little warm friend finds me on the couch after everyone else has gone to bed. I can't really explain how this isn't a totally absurd notion, but I didn't know if my family could hold it together without her. Sometimes it seemed like the only thing we all had in common was how much we loved that awful dog.

I'm visiting my grandparents in Tennessee right now, people who talk almost exclusively to or about their dog. You know, everyone stands in a circle around Heidi while my grandma says "Oh, she says, I'm the center of attention now! I like this! I'm a good girl!", while we nod and thump the dog affectionately on the shoulder. I want to be able to not shut up about my dog, too. But I don't want another dog. I want my dog.