Buckie with Valerie, my granddaughter

I've learned from past experience not to mention to most
people that my dog has died. Eight out of ten of them
would say, with little feeling, "Oh, that's too bad." And
then, inevitably, "I know where you can get another
dog.." Or, "Have you been to the shelter? They're
advertising all the time..."

And I feel like replying, "Say, that good friend of
yours that died? Not to worry. I'll help you find
another. Let's go to the mall. Lots of people walking
around there. We'll get one of them to be your friend."

Those who have had great relationships with dogs
know better. They know that dogs are not
interchangeable.

A former neighbor used to irritate me by saying she
was a dog lover and so was I.

I don't love all dogs anymore than I love all humans. I
care about their welfare, like being around most of
them, and have dearly loved two in my lifetime.

Yesterday I thought about planting something to cover
the bare ground where I dug Buckie's grave. I'd like a
blanket of roses, but they require sun and the grave is
shaded by trees near the creek where he splashed and
played, and where he went to drink first thing every
morning.

Paging through some catalogues, I found the perfect
plant: a kerria. This shrub, with its small fluffy
yellow blooms, has been around a long time. I've
heard it called a kitchen rose. It was described in
the catalogue as tolerating part sun but preferring shade.
Now I have to see if I can find one locally. The one in
the catalogue has double blooms, but I'd just as soon
have the old fashioned kind.

Not only do I want something to cover the bare ground,
but I keep thinking an attractive bush might ensure that his
grave remains undisturbed. I won't be here so very much
longer myself, and I don't want any subsequent owners
digging in that spot.