Mike told me to put all of the love I had for Butter on to my other little pup– the one still living.  I’ve tried this.  But the strange thing about love is, it’s not one size fits all.  Even for two 85-pound dogs, the transference isn’t negotiable.  For the love of all things Butter was the remembering of her fear of plastic bags and that eye contact from across the room could soften to a slow stroll toward each other– or a wink that could have us barreling down a beach.  These looks to my other pup mean something different.  My love for my second pup is only ever growing, but it isn’t the same love.

These days, I wonder what is to become of that love of Butter.  85 pounds of love sitting inside with nowhere to go.  Most days, it feels like it is rotting in there– decaying me from the inside out, unable to be revitalized by the brown eyes of that bullmastiff.  All this love, and I have nowhere to put it.  The grave in the ground mimics the grave of our hearts– the deep holes we labor to create only to house the rotting lot of love we had.  And it is only a hole of bones and skin and memories.  Until something grows again.  But the growing, it takes so long.