Bodhi

Danny mentioned Bodhi tonight, out of nowhere, because Biscuit did a thing with his paws on the step that Bodhi used to do. Bodhi was his, before me. A shepherd mix he had from twenty three to thirty one, who was already old when I met him and who died in the February we moved to Asheville, three weeks after the truck. Danny dug the hole himself in ground that was mostly rock and would not let me help. I have thought for years that part of the reason he wanted a dog so badly was that he has not had one since, and that the three weeks between arriving in a new town and losing him made Asheville into a place he associates with it. He does not talk about it. Tonight was maybe the fourth time in seven years. What he said was: Bodhi would have hated that dog. And then laughed, and then went quiet for a second in a way I have learned not to fill. And then said: I'm glad we got him. I did not say anything. I sat there and let it be a thing that had been said, and I think that was right, and I also notice I was relieved that he did not say any more, which is a different thing from it being right.