My reference is lying right beside me, slowly pushing me off the couch.
She’s nothing but snuggles, this one.
We got her at the Oregon Humane Society.
She came from Southern California, thin fur and ribs showing.
She cowers when you raise your hand to sneeze into your elbow. She winces when you reach down to touch her.
But she is a mama.
When she got her first squeaky toy, she grabbed it and ran to the couch, then tried to nurse it. She wined at it. She remembers. She knows.
On Mother’s Day, Bob told the story of the big Mother’s Day party in the Kingdom of the Valley.
Mrs. Crow was there, and Rosalyn was there, of course.
And so were her puppies.
I anthropomorphize her. I can’t imagine her loss. She must look around the world with such longing and confusion. She pushes her belly to the ground, trying to nurse the squeaky toy.
So we weave her into stories. We find a way to bring them back to her — her little ones. Her loves. Her body pulses with the memory of them, and we try to find them for her in our stories.
She is our mama dragon. She listens to our stories. She dreams of them.