When I close my eyes, I can remember with all of my senses exactly how her head felt under my cheek. I know the temperature of her ears in my fingertips. I can feel her feet as I held her paws. My hands know the ridges of her ribs and the softness of her fur - indelibly etched into my mind. Impossibly soft. Her eyes so deeply brown and inquisitive.
I can hear her yip to go out, or her bark that would send other dogs scurrying the other way. I remember her pushing insistently under my hand - wanting me to cease whatever stupid thing I was doing that was distracting me from my main duty - petting her.
Oh, Lord. When does it stop hurting? I have a painting of her on the shelf in my bedroom. The only one of my dogs I ever had painted, for some reason.
Today at the dog park I was telling Marv how when she ran, she was like a bullet. Her sole venture into lure coursing was a rousing success as she unseated the reigning champ, and won 2 out of 3 of her heats. She had so much love of life. So much soul.
Oh, Lord.
This is one of my favorite pictures of Angel. That's her in the lower right hand corner. Believe it or not, that's Greyson - now 17 years old. Festus is in the background. Grey is playing tug o war with a foster, Duncan.
And another pic of Angel, wearing a sheep costume and laying on TOP of Sunscreen Man.
This would be Angel going down the steps. But she couldn't do it in a conventional manner. No. She had to to UNDER Festus and Sunscreen Man.
Here's Angel enjoying a rub from Grey (now 17.)
There will never be another dog like her.