|sent from: London, UK. destination: Long Beach, California|
I can’t believe he’s gone. For something as inevitable as death the emptiness we feel and the void left behind feel unnatural; I can’t help but wonder why we aren’t better equipped for it. That is for another day.
I want to remember him as on this watercolour pencil sketch I made a few months ago. It’s crude but honest.
Indigo was sitting on the porch on a raised plinth from which he could observe the world’s comings and going. Something had attracted his attention and he was reaching out as far as his long, burly neck would let him as he tried to discern the object of his curiousity. I watched him from the window as he stretched his head out, ears forward. He was big and beautiful and sweet. That’s what people saw first – his size. He wasn’t fat, he was bouncer-burly. Then they knew his sweetness, like a tough guy who looks like he might punch you but ends up giving you nothing but hugs and smiles.
I can still feel his warmth.