My best friend died this past week.
He was 12.5 years old or 98 in dog years. He was a 75 pound retired rescued greyhound who raced into into my heart and carved out a big space. He never met a person that he didn’t like. While I think that’s an admirable way to behave, I can’t say the same for myself.
He taught me how to work a room. He would go from person to person and lean on them until they petted him and talked to them. He was unabashedly friendly and never judged people the way I do. He trusted people even though his early years had to be difficult as the life of a racing greyhound is.
We spent eight wonderful years together and I miss him greatly.
While he was sick and suffering, I could hardly eat. Entire days would go by and I would feel hungry and light headed and try to think what I consumed that day. It’s rare when I don’t have an appetite.
However, when I made the decision (sooner vs. later) to end his misery and the deed was done with dignity and peace, I suddenly felt voraciously hungry.
A good friend came over with some cheap but delicious Mexican food from La Fresita. She brought a Cuban sandwich and a green chili burrito. I know that Cuba is nowhere near Mexico and how it got on the menu is a mystery to me but a welcome mystery because there are far too few Cuban sandwiches in this city.
The Cuban sandwich was on once crusty but now soggy bread and stuffed with thinly sliced pork, onions, tomatoes, grated lettuce, and some secret sauce. And the green chili burrito was also stuffed with a more meatier pork and spicy chili verde. I ate ravenously. We washed it all down with about two-thirds of a bottle of Charles Shaw (or three-buck Chuck) zinfandel.
She was hoping that I had something delicious for dessert but alas my coffers were bare.
With a full stomach and slight buzz, I fell whole again.
My dear sweet Painter boy who always savored every bite would have totally approved of my comfort food fest. Feeding the hungry heart was just what I needed.