Two days ago we said goodbye to our dog, George. You can read about how ill he’s been here, if you wish.

I won’t go into details of his final days. Or his eleven years. Not now. I’ve been writing between tears, though, trying to capture every detail, every memory, every feeling. That’s been both cathartic and awful. But I need to put it to paper. For someday.

I know that this almost unbearable grief means that we loved George and he loved us. Uncomplicated. Pure. Utterly fuzzy.

It’s been a shit year, personally and politically, but this dog has, as always, been a constant. His moods. His needs. His sweet face. His ability to absorb a hug, sigh, and then put his head back down as if to say, “It’s all going to be ok. Now please let me nap.”

The last 48 hours have clarified how much this dog has woven himself into our hearts, our lives, and our routines.

After dropping the kids off at school today, I put my purse on the counter next to this.

I’d been doing so well, too. Looks a little like a heart, doesn’t it?

Right after George passed away, the twins were processing, each in their own way. They wrote a little eulogy on the whiteboard we keep in the play area. I didn’t get a picture before they wiped it away in grief but it said, “George. Born July 4, 2006. Died December 19, 2017. Rest in peace and fuzz.”

My daughter spent a part of her day on Tuesday making a card for her brother.

In case you can’t read Kindergarten, it says “Hope you feel better Logan*. I love you.” That green blob on the left is the dog, and the blue lines with pink dots are his angel wings. Written in the angel wings are “Miss You.”

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how children break your heart. With their goodness and their grief — I can’t take the credit for the first, and I cannot do much to alleviate the second, but I am grateful for these three little people.

And for a dog who filled these last eleven years with simple love.

*The fact that she spelled it “Login” is the greatest thing ever.