When Richie moved in, he brought his dead dog’s leash with him. “This was Cocoa’s,” he said. “We have to hang it by the door. Then if there’s a fire, I can grab it on my way out.” I nodded. We hammered in a nail and hung up the green leash. A limp strip of dark forest, lonely on the cream wall, waiting for its ghostly companion.
“Wait,” I said and went to my jewelry box where, mixed with my rings and earrings, were my own dead dogs’ collars—Gus’s thick blue one, and Gwen’s, a thinner pink. I hooked them on the nail with Cocoa’s leash. Richie nodded.
“Now if there’s a fire, they’re together.”
Love this. Poignant. And beautiful.