As I came out of class tonight, it occurred to me that summer is officially over.
It's dark now by 8:30PM.
This weekend is Labor Day, the official end of the season.
Summer, with it's long hot days, is my favorite season.
The season of tans, bathing suits, beaches, and friends getting together at every opportunity to enjoy each other and the weather.
And it's over.
My Dad called me today to let me know that my Grandma's 12 year furry companion had passed away. He wanted to be sure that I knew, be sure that I called to let her know that I was thinking of her. I did indeed call, my grandmother was very upset. Bridgitte, her dog, was a companion that my grandmother only allowed herself to find a year after my Grandfather passed away. She trained Bridgitte from a puppy.
For a little over 12 years her little dog had been with her throughout her day, watched TV with her, ate with her (everything she ate!), and protected her from every strange sound. The routine of little Bridgitte, aided in her routine. It helped her want to be home instead of in therapy when she fractured her pelvic bone, and also the time that she had a stroke. It helped her get out of bed to get the dog outside to go to the bathroom, feed her on time, and countless other little things.
Sure, it's just a dog. It's not my Grandfather. But I feel her pain with her, and know how different it will be for her not to hear her dog's little steps throughout the house. I worry, because I know that she won't want another dog any time soon. I worry, because by the time that she decides to, she may not feel that she is capable of training it. I worry, because I want my Grandmother to stay as strong as she is now, with as much desire as she has now to keep going.