Lisa broke down into a puddle of tears. She wanted to make sure that he had been taken to the vet. That he wasn’t just really tired and sleeping deeply. That it wasn’t just a bad dream. After an hour or so of allowing herself to cry, she decided to draw a picture of M0by. Then, she looked out at the night sky and decided that the brightest star was the one he would be living on, watching us. Then, she gathered up about 10 books about dogs to read before bed. She asked if we could print the picture I posted yesterday so we could frame it and put it up. When she woke up this morning, she said she dreamed about puppies. She’s okay.
Bart, on the other hand, is a whacko. Seriously. From the moment he learned of M0by’s death, he asked at least 300 questions, some of them a little warped. A sampling:
Can I see a picture of dead M0by?
How did he die?
Where did he die?
Did his tail fall off when he died?
Were his eyes open when he died?
Did he fall in the pool and die?
Did he fall off the roof and die?
Did he really die?
Maggie, did you know that M0by died? Aren’t you sad? Lisa’s sad.
Can I go to [cousin's]
Is he dead in the house now?
Guess what, Lisa? M0by fell asleep and can’t wake up.
Let’s call [cousin]
When will M0by be not dead?
Mom, did M0by’s legs hurt so he died? My legs don’t hurt, so I won’t die.
… and so on.
I was exhausted by all the questions. The first thing he asked this morning was “Mom, is M0by still dead?” I’m guessing he’s just not grasping the whole concept of death.