We said goodbye to Yoda tonight, the best good dog there ever was.

All I can think of are these two pages from one of my favorite books ever in my whole life – Our Animal Friends of Maple Hill Farm. The comfort of quiet corners for remembrance, for beauty, for grieving, and renewal. I don’t know what death is, but I don’t think it’s an ending.

“In a quiet corner of an overgrown field,
Where the snow lies deepest and the oak trees hold their leaves all winter,
a beloved hound, named John, lied buried.
Three cats are buried here – Webster, the first Siamese,
a dear, dirty white cat name Crook, who stole from the table
and Fat Boy, who looked like Max.

In this quiet corner, the best wildflowers grow,
and the first peepers are heard in the spring, even before the snow melts.
Here, owls call from the treetops in the early morning
and the irreverent crows hold their noisy conventions.
Here, the mother doe has her fawn, and the migrating geese come to rest.
It is here that the fox is safe from the hunters.”