My hands have a complete memory of the shape of Bondi's head. They remember the patches at the back of his jaw which I would cup and scratch just the right way, the velvety hairs that cover his ears, the hard spot between brow and muzzle where I would apply two-fingered pressure that would relieve all pains.
As he puts out his paw, I can feel the weight, the roughness of the pads against the calluses on my own palms.; my fingers remember the hairy tuft behind his elbow. My feet remember the weight of his head when his chin rested on them as I sat at the piano. There are spaces around me with weight and memory and texture. A hot breath next to my ear, reminding me to open the rear car window so that the smells of the open road can be savoured.
Saturday was a very hard day for me. My first weekend excursion without Bondi. Early in the afternoon, I was dizzy with grief, operating on auto-pilot.
Later that day I had a very depressing conversation with my brother, over-burdened by the ways the world has shaped him. Tomorrow would have been our father's 70th birthday. All too much for one weekend.
Thank you Munson for being here, dragging me out again into the world, laying down new memories, being the right companion at the right time. x