On Saturday morning, while the girls and I sipped our coffees during the first session of a women’s conference, Husband sent a photo to the family text thread. I grimaced.
On a plush and verdant bed of Creeping Charlie in our backyard, a raccoon lay in repose. Which one of you did this? he texted.
Dicka: NOT JARVIS!!!!!
NOOOOO
Gone too soon
Maybe he’s asleep?
Me: I don’t know about you guys, but Jarvis was naughty. Maybe God took him out. On the other hand, Farnsworth? An utter sweetheart.
Dicka: Now I ain’t sayin he a hole digga but he ain’t messin w no broke broke
Me: You guys are writing this week’s blog for me.
Dicka: No!
Husband: You’ll have to get the translation for [Dicka’s] gibberish.
Ricka: It’s that one song dad
It’s called gold digger
Go listen to it
Dicka: don’t
It’s a bad song
Maybe Flicka was tuned in to the conference speaker, and that’s why she didn’t respond to the news of the passing of Jarvis. We also never found out who did it, but Husband acted as sole pallbearer that day before we ladies returned home.
Maybe you’re wondering “Who’s Jarvis?” Or “Who’s Farnsworth?” I’m glad you asked. You can read about our yard creatures here.
We had a summer with Jarvis, but I suppose you could say it felt like a lifetime. He was more of a taker than a giver, but at least he left holes in our yard—a reminder of how our paths once crossed. May he live on—if not in our hearts, at least in our text thread from Saturday.
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*Names in this blog have been changed to protect my family, neighbors, and friends in the neighborhood, and in a nod of appreciation to the beloved Swedish author Maj Lindman, I’ve renamed my three blondies Flicka, Ricka, and Dicka.