To a sweet and sour spitfire who was the boss of everything and everyone.
To a gray-haired dame who would yell to get her water bowl refilled, yell to get the dog’s water bowl refilled, then go outside and drink old rainwater from a dirty crack in the deck.
To a cuddly, creaky old lady who discovered the joys of the fireplace and our laps late in life.
To a furry scaredy-cat who discovered in her recent deafness that the bone-chilling vacuum was actually a fabulous massage opportunity.
To a sprightly senior who caught more moles in her twentieth year than the rest of her years combined.
Dear Blue, twenty years ago you fit into the palm of Christian’s hand. You’ve been with him, and then us, ever since. We are so sad. We love you, and we miss you.