In the days leading up to a funeral, a couple visits a cottage where the aging dog shows signs of decline, yet exhibits fleeting moments of vitality. The environment appears more familiar to the old dog than their own home. As one partner works on a eulogy, the other engages in a simple chore outside, reflecting on past losses that also occurred in summer. This period brings a sense of contemplation, mixed with the bittersweet familiarity of the surroundings and their pet's condition.
Death has a season, and that season, for me, is summer. My mother died in June; I remember the sound of lawnmowers when I called my wife to tell her.
The old dog, now nearly 16, has certainly become more wobbly, more incontinent and more prone to falling asleep suddenly, in strange places.
The stone floor is remarkably resilient when it comes to chronic incontinence. And the weather is amazing.
I'm trying to extract bindweed from a raised bed. It's a pleasingly thankless task, requiring little thought and carrying no risk of completion.
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