I washed out your food bowl tonight.
I fed the other two dogs, and noticed it there in your corner, where it has been for a week, empty and purposeless.
Around it, a scattering of the dried food pieces you would nudge out of the way to get to the morsels of wet food — offerings on the altar of your senior pickiness.
But I washed out your food bowl tonight, gathered up the leftover bits of food, then scrubbed the floor with a Swiffer to wipe away your traces and my tears.
Tomorrow, perhaps I will vacuum up behind the chair you loved to sit beside, put your collar away, and maybe even stop hiding my shoes under the bed so you won’t lick them all night.
And next week, I’ll collect your ashes, and maybe someday stop hanging my hand off the side of the bed in the night so I can feel your nose nudging me.
Someday, but not tonight.
I washed your food bowl out tonight.