Tom and I continue to magnify our instability. We bought a Shih Tzu puppy. Her name is Rose and it is questionable that either one of us outlive her. Nevertheless, the heart wants what it wants, and we wanted Rose.
Though we often call her Bridget, which is Erica's dog's name. We've known Bridget for years, even lived with her awhile, and so her name is seared into our brains.
"Why don't we just name her Bridget, since we call her that anyway?" I asked Tom,
"She's registered at the vet's as Rose," he said.
Okay then. Rose.
Rose and I have touched tongues. I think it was a mistake. It must have been a mistake. We like to canoodle. Rose is the new topic of conversation with Tom and me: What's she doing? Where is she? Don't let her eat your watch band! Look, she's waving at me with her paw. Oh, isn't she precious. You're precious, aren't you, Bridget--I mean, Rose. Precious Rose.
When we die, she'll go to Sam's house. His 10-year old daughter, Sally, has already made Rose several toys, one with a noisemaker inside and a bird's beak.
I wonder if Sally would like us to die sooner than later.
Rose by any other name is still Rose. Unless she's Bridget.
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