Spot died in 1971, March 18.
I remember because it was the day after St Patrick’s day.
When I woke up he was dead.
My father ran over him in the yard.
My father himself would only live thirteen more years.
I hope it was an accident.
I still remember looking down at him from the eastern-room window as the wind lifted his white, black and brown fur. He lay there, cold and still.
He was a collie, Woodmansterene Sylvia.
The dog we had before that was an old english sheepdog that I don’t consciously remember. One day, as I walked along Nyhavn, I see one at the outside tables.
I asked the couple if I could greet the dog. As I petted him and smelt him, tears began to stream down my cheeks.