Happy is a dog.
At times I speak broadly in metaphors, but once a blue moon I am literal. Happy is gone now, chasing squirrels in the sky gone. I will say this one small thing, which I hold among many dear memories, and that is this: like Rhett Butler, Happy didn’t give a damn.
By the time I knew her, she was in her dotage. And she was doing whatever she wanted. She spit vegetables on the floor, but ate the good stuff. If she wanted a pet, she came up to you and demanded it. If she didn’t feel like it, she up and left your hand floating in the air.
When we went out, she often had her own agenda, which may or may not have aligned with yours. I found this endearing. It may even have been mutual.
She lived life on her own terms, a smaller, condensed, and furrier version of how I would like to go about my own.