"THE DETAILS ARE NOT THE DETAILS. THEY MAKE THE DESIGN." — CHARLES EAMES
Happy Wednesday, m' dears! I apologize for kicking off the blog week a day late, but the three-day weekend was refreshing for oodles of reasons, and I honestly couldn't convince myself to stay inside on Monday afternoon to prep a post when it was gorgeous outdoors and my whip of a wagon needed scrubbing. All chores aside, there were breezy walks all over base (gotta get 10,000 steps, am I right?!), cycling for Flyboy, Blueberry French Toast for breakfast, a viewing of The First Monday in May (so so good!), gin-spiked cocktails for the parents, MORE fresh Tulips (HEB is just showing off), a gel manicure for me, and Lego Batman for m' boys. Yasssss!
None of this seems different than weekends of our past, but Sunday's tribute to Tripp at Lake Amistad allowed us the opportunity to move forward. Don't get me wrong, it was sad, and I sobbed. A lot. I even considered backing out and postponing it because it felt too heavy to have to re-live all over again. Did we really want to do this? Maybe it would be easier to stow the wooden box of ashes in my closet and forget about the lake altogether?? But we forged ahead as planned, loaded up in both cars, dressed in shades of black and gold (in honor of his Missouri roots, breed name, and us adopting him after we graduated from Mizzou), and we brought along a pail (the one we bought Tripp for Christmas the first year we had him) and filled it with thirteen tennis balls to symbolize each year he was alive. The weather was gloomy and we feared it would start sprinkling, but we took turns throwing tennis balls into the lake and spread his remains anyway. In a lot of ways the weather matched the somber mood of Sunday morning, as very little was said by any of us, but just as the last of the ashes were dumped into the water, the sun came out to warm our hearts and bring peace of mind. Amid tears falling from my cheeks, I couldn't help but smile when Flyboy hugged me and quietly said "I think that's a sign, don't you?" We stuck around a little longer and watched the neon balls float around in the water until we lost track of them. About that time, Max began to grow restless and the boys had to get to the theater to see their movie, so Beesly and I went home to snuggle while I processed the morning's events by looking at old photos and videos of our beloved pup once more. It was a morning I'll never forget, and I'm glad we made it a point to say good-bye one last time in a manner that brought great comfort and the sweetest of memories. When you love big, you hurt big—the older I get, the more I'm learning to understand that notion. If you're ever blessed to call a dog like Tripp your own—one that gave so much of himself to the people he learned to trust and loved so fiercely—you know one last lake hurrah is necessary. Here's to you Trippy Doo! You're so very loved and missed.
P.S. That's definitely Max hiding some of my grandma's sugar cookies in his pocket. He knows they're not safe with his mom around.
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