One of the many things I love about our worn, torn, lopsided little house are the windowsills where our Shnautzer, Cecil used to stand on guard. They’re scratched down to the wood, and even after all these years, we choose not to paint them. The windowsills are the last remnant of our sweet, bonkers, fierce little dog. The children ask about him all the time. Iole remembers him in her life. Jason and I often wonder whether he would remember us if he saw us again. Giving him away was very hard, but we like to believe that it was the best decision for our family, for Cecil, especially. We like to believe that he is better off where he is, with room to roam, no children to protect, and no postmen to attack. We like to believe that he is alive, and that he is happy. That’s what we like to believe.