Our dog Brutus died in November. He was quite the family dog. We all loved him. Elise asks about him every single day. She made up some story in her head about how he was sick and medicine didn't work so he went to live in a yellow house with other dogs. Fine. Could be close, huh?
It's going on 10 months of repeating the story every morning.
This morning we were in the car and she said "Mommy? Where is Brutus? Did his medicine not work?"
I finally thought she could grasp it and said, "Honey, Brutus died."
"Oh." she replied and paused.
She took a deep breath and said, "Well, dying isn't good now is it?"
I said, "No it's not."
She told me, "I think dying is pretty sad. Sometimes flowers die. One time I had a balloon. It did die. Dying sure isn't a good thing."
No honey, it's not.
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