Last week, our grand-dog, Tonka, died.
I think about his life. His adoption by Mea and Charles in Seattle twelve years ago. He watched as our children’s relationship flourished to marriage. The moves in Seattle, the move to Washington D.C. The birth of our two granddaughters.
My daughter, Mea, shared: “About Tonka I would say he was with us day in and day out - he was part of our unit and the power of his companionship was about the mundane moments more so than the milestones. Like, whining for me to move over and make space for him on the couch, or busting into the room during a Zoom meeting, or just as a kid was falling asleep, or being underfoot during dinner. He was a character, was really loved by our friends and by most anyone who met him. There are Tonka-size empty spaces all over our house and we will always miss him.”
I wonder about the book he would have written. Mea suspects that Tonka would write about eating salmon, licking the girls and his favorite sun spots to nap.
He was slowing down over the last few years, but always greeted us with that gentle “I remember you” when we visited. His place in the family will be hard to fill. He will be missed.