Yesterday we buried Wilma in the garden.
We chose a spot, behind the hedge we see from the kitchen patio doors, adjacent to where Max's ashes are scattered.
Ofcourse it had to be the most deceiving plot of land we could have chosen.
Although the earth was soft due to the rain the green turf hid a mightly collection of rocks, bricks and large pebbles.
We started digging, Jon sweating as his spade bashed against yet more stones, I shovelled the earth away and be both cleared away the stones and made two heaps, one of soil the other of the stones.
When we had dug down a sufficient amount we stopped and put our spades to one side.
Jon carried Wilma out and carefully, lovingly placed her into the space.
We packed the stones around her and I was particularly careful to pack her newly pinned hip to support it as she prepared to run and play on her next beach.
I placed her favourite ball next to her, together with an apple, so the seeds of autumn one day may take root.
We said our few words and then we threw some soil over the stones and packed the space safely allowing Wilma to be comfortable.
She is facing the field where the horses run freely, just as Wilma will one day!
It was a hard task yet one which we both had to do.
It was appropriate that Wilma remained at home.
There will never be another Wilma and I do not want to try and even find one.
For now I want time to heal, space to think and time to remember!