It has been exactly one week since our dog Pooka Pie died. She was a vibrant 13 1/2 years old with no health issues. Our vet suspects she got into something toxic. Last Friday morning, she was zooming around the park chasing squirrels and looking regal. A few hours later, she was fighting for her life. That same week we had wind storms that felled trees and power lines. Our large ficus split in half in our front yard. Here in Los Angeles, the City hides traps with rat bait around the park. Maybe one broke open and Pooka found it. I don't know. Without a necropsy, I never will.

We buried Pooka in a deep hole in the back yard. The kids and I carved a headstone for her. I can trick myself into thinking I see or hear her but then that stark stone brings me back to reality. I don't know what your spirituality is. Sometimes I'm unsure what mine is. We tell the children about heaven and Grandma throwing sticks to Pooka and that brings them comfort and makes them smile. Einstein said that matter is just energy waiting to happen. That brings me personal comfort. Pooka's cohort Kiwi is still with us. It is an excruciating miracle to see her poking around on walks without her sister. She still refuses to sit beside me in the station wagon. That was Pooka's spot. So I chauffer Kiwi around town as we run errands.

Two nights ago, our five year old daughter Sophia said to us, "I'm happy for Christmas but I wish Santa could make real magic." "What do you mean, Sweetheart?" I asked. She responded, "He just makes toys but I wish he could bring my dog Pooka back." Sonia and I hugged her then had to turn away.

Ah, life.