Beneath the black couch, a dog is laying on the floor.

It isn’t the litter that he is looking for. It is the small white dog, fine, sweet and surrounded by loving people.
I always thought a white dog was the most beautiful color. The pure white of the Irish sea, the pure white of the Dover-London road, the white of the blackberry trees of Kent, the black of the Harzog between Beychevelle and Beychevelle, the flat white of the Haut-Brionne region, the tuxedoed beluga of Bordeaux.

I miss my Grandma.