The yellow hair is still on my sweater, the trails are still visible in the backyard, circling the birdfeeder and fencelines. I still by habit step over now-imaginary dog dishes to get into the laundry room, and my hand somehow drifts down to the empty rug beneath my desk. The silence is deafening.
We cannot emphasize enough our gratitude for the outpouring of love and understanding from our family and friends. Emails and phone calls have flooded our home, and allowed Wolf, especially, some much-needed release of emotion with someone other than his parents.
For those who are not acquainted with the allure of the Yellow Dog, she was Wolf's friend during some very turbulent times; a rock of which he could cling when his days were just too full of misunderstandings and misgivings. She never asked a thing of him that he couldn't give, and was always, always there.
Many have suggested that we begin the search for another dog soon. Perhaps, when the hurt (our friend TG called it "visceral" and oh, how right he is) subsides a bit more. When we stop calling out her name as we come in the door in the afternoon, when a "new normal" begins to creep into our daily routine.
When I finally vacuum up the last of the yellow hair and it snows just a little bit.