There is no greeting in the world quite like it. The same delight on your worst day as your best, the same complete absence of judgment, the same unshakable conviction that you walking through an ordinary door is the most exciting thing to have happened all week. Nobody else does this. Nobody else has ever done this.
Day of the Dead is the right tradition for a dog, because it was never really about mourning. It was about company, and about keeping a place at the table for whoever used to sit there. Nothing in it is solemn.
The idea underneath it is a generous one. The ones we love do not get packed away and closed off. They get a place set for them, their favorite things put out, their name said out loud in the middle of a story everyone has already heard eleven times.
So tell it again. The thing they did with the blanket. The strong opinion about one specific neighbor. The unshakable belief that they were a lap dog, regardless of size and all available evidence. That is not holding on too tightly. That is just love continuing to be funny.
Some friendships do not really end. They only get quieter, and a good deal easier to carry.
