Member-only story
How to Say Goodbye to Your Best Friend
And what saying goodbye means after that…
The sky in Aalst, Belgium is usually dark and wet. The ancient cathedrals sit empty underneath and above faded grey clouds and cobblestone streets. Sugar cane and dark chocolate scents waft from neighboring regions as monks brew their infamous Lambic framboise beer. Today, I’m writing in America, thinking back on my first days in Belgium. It was when my mother Jenni visited, that the idea of getting a dog became a reality.
Bear is the name of my tricolor Jack Russell. Embarrassingly, I bought him from a puppy mill (I didn’t realize it was until it got shut down) outside Bruxelles. My mother was with me. She can tell you he was the puppy I pointed to immediately. I watched him. Studied him. I came back three times, to make sure he was the dog with the right temperament for me. I didn’t want a bat-shit-crazy dog. I wanted calm obedience. I wanted furry gut-wrenching cuteness. Bear’s markings weren’t symmetrical and he let the puppies nibble on his soft velvet ears. I fell in love with the way his fresh snow white and pure black fur glistened. As the other pups in the litter played around him, he sat stoic, eyeing me through the glass.
It was like we both knew what we wanted.
