My Favorite Socks

My favorite pair of socks looks plain. They don’t have bells on them, or a faux fur trim like my Christmas socks. They aren’t of the fuzzy variety which keep my tootsies extra warm. They are just plain white socks. They rise above my ankle but don’t venture all the way up to my knee like the annoying uniform socks I was forced into wearing during grade school. They have been worn so many times that the heels and balls are see through—and also tinted black from the bottom of my shoes, but I try not to let my mom in on that secret because she will through them in the garbage. I love these socks because they let the world know that I love my dog.

My favorite pair of socks have a cartoon picture of a dog and above the image is the letter I followed by a heart. Think of any shirt that you have seen from NY. Replace NY with a dog. And you have my socks.

Every time I put on those socks I smile because I think of my dog. I always have him with me. The socks themselves don’t nourish me, but the memories of my dog sticking his head in the snow and popping back up with a pile of flakes on his nose do.

My dog died last week.

I miss him.

My house is too quite.

There is an empty space below me as I type this.

But I have the memories.

My dog was diagnosed with cancer at the beginning of September. He was given less than a week to live. Three and a half months later he passed away after fighting so hard. But I can’t be upset when I prayed to God, literally, that he keep my dog from suffering. This is the best thing.

It’s weird to see death as nourishment. But it’s the ultimate nourishment. His pain is over. Though my selfish desires would love to be petting him right now, I know that he is in the right place.

He is being nourished.