February 2012
Watchskip always loved to be rubbed on the back of his neck, and when i did it he’d yawn and stretch, reach out to me with his paws as if he was trying to embrace me. i received a trans-atlantic call one day. “skip died,” daddy said. he and my mama wrapped him in my baseball jacket. they buried him out under our elm tree, they said. that wasn’t totally true, for he really lay buried in my heart.
