The Appropriate Weight of Grief
Michael Zadoorian

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.

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