Requiescat in canem pacem.

He was there the day she first came home from the hospital. And though he was less than please with her infringement on his despotic rule of our household, he became a model "big brother" - patient to a fault, submitting to being crowded, pinched, having paws run over by strollers and toys, and, despite our best efforts, having to play second fiddle to a baby.

We broke every conventional "wisdom" with him - giving him more freedom once Otter came home. He would sit on the bed with us while I nursed, sometimes putting his giant head on my lap. I would put SB on his bed, a tiny infant lying near a giant of a 100 lb. pit bull. He gained bed sleeping privileges for the first time. We'd often curl up together - all 4 of us squished on a queen-sized bed.

And as Otter grew, she did so with him as a constant, furry, larger-than-life companion. Whether she was trying to climb on him, dress him in Christmas hats, make sure he got his fair share of pancakes, join him on fund-raising walks for homeless dogs, pummel him, or - ultimately - hug and kiss him, she loved him with all her heart. She grew to respect all animals, to approach them carefully - or at least more carefully than most toddlers do.

On September 20, 2011, Foster died.

More terrifying than sitting at the vet, knowing we'd never see him again, more frightening than the deafening silence, emptiness and lifelessness that filled our house with his absence, was the prospect of explaining to my 3-year-old that this incredible fixture in her life was no more.

Bree and I waffled between the big doggie playground in the sky or that he became a star. In the end, we followed the advice of SB's teacher, and told her the simple truth: Foster was very, very sick, and he died. No fables, no euphemisms. Those, said her teacher, were for us, the parents. Otter would understand, albeit in her own way.

SB is taking the news in stages. Though she first ignored any mention, telling us she wanted to play, she's since been asking about him.

"Where is Foster?"

"Can we go get him?"

Her questions make my heart bleed. My answers tear it to pieces.

Last night she asked me, "But where did he go?" And after a panicked pause, I again, told her the truth. "I don't know honey," I said. "But he won't be coming back to our house." I suggested making an album of his photos to remember.

I'd like to think that perhaps he did become a star, his dogly energy - a glow that outshines his physical size a million-fold - returning to the infinite universe. If that is the euphemism I need, I'll take it. My great pain is that on his celestial journey, he took an irreplaceable part of me with him. Though that's the least I can offer him.

Rest in peace, Foster.

America's Most Wanted

At the end of a really brutal week, I came home last night hoping for a glass of wine, a chance to complain, followed by some silence. By the time SB was in bed, wine had been upgraded to gin and complaining had been replaced by full-force whining. My reverie of self-pity was interrupted by Bree's ominous words: "There's something I have to tell you."

This is never a good way to start a conversation. It is rarely followed by "We won the lottery," or "I got a promotion, 200% raise, full benefits and a Hawaiian vacation." More often, the follow-up goes along the lines of "The roof collapsed," or "Your mother's moving in with us and all her belongings are in the guest room now." Last night, the news was far, far more potentially devastating.

"Baby Ducky is gone. It may be for real this time." Baby Ducky (the sleeping one, NOT the bath one) is the Animal du Jour. Like, he is IT. And while he's been ousted from bed during the Great Bed Animal Purge (making his descriptor of "the sleeping one" a bit of a misnomer), he is nonetheless, a very hot commodity.

The story seemed to be that 3 animals left for the park with Otter, but only 2 returned. This did not bode well - once the stuffed creature is out on the streets, the best one can hope for is it's not picked up by some young sociopath-in-training waiting for some unsuspecting fiber filled animal to practice his craft on. Plan B needed to be put in place immediately, since Plan A (looking for Baby Ducky come morning) seemed folly at best.

I'd like to say that I am one of those parents who has backups of the favorite animals. Or at the very least knows the manufacturer, serial number, model and make. Or even who gave the particular animal to us. Alas, all I could tell you about Baby Ducky is he was small and yellow. And while I was convinced that I knew the manufacturer, an Internet search proved that I had actually been thinking of Baby Chicken. Which isn't even something I realized - until Bree pointed it out.

Now we were really in trouble. I decided to forgo dinner, and instead, settled down to an evening of searching images of stuffed baby ducks in hopes that one of the thousands of pictures that Google inadvertently pulled up would jog my memory. Without making light of it, what followed was akin to scouring missing persons listings. I frantically scrolled through page after page of stuffed yellow ducks, occasionally saying "I think it's this one!" only to realize that no, it was not. Bree came up with a fuzzy iPhone photo, that we blew up, cropped and desperately tried to compare to the online toy ads. It was like searching age progressed backs of milk cartons for a toy duck. Still, we somehow came to a consensus that one particular duck may have been Baby Ducky's doppelganger - or at least a close enough match, if you accounted for matting, fading and lighting in the respective photos.

As the sun rose, I prepared my story. As predicted, the first question out of SB's mouth was the whereabouts of Baby Ducky. Tales of him napping, which had held her at bay the previous evening were futile. I opted for the truth: that Baby Ducky was lost, but we would go to the park to look for him. But as I walked through our park, my already-shaky faith was being broken down by the moment. If Baby Ducky had ever been in the park, he was long gone. Dejected, I turned home and began the painful "I think he's gone" explanation. Which went over surprisingly well. As soon as I made a promise of procuring a new duck, SB seemed satisfied with abandoning the search and rescue operation.

As we neared home, and just as I was wrapping my my tale of new ducks who were just like the old duck but (possibly) just a little different, I happened to glance across the street. And there, right in the roadway, was a clump of pale yellow. I dashed across. There he was! A victim of a hit and run, Baby Ducky was more grey than yellow, squished, missing an eye - BUT present and accounted for. I virtually yelped with glee. "Look, we found him! Isn't that great?!" Otter didn't miss a beat. "I don't want him," she said. "I want a new one."

Oh no - not after what I'd been through! Reassuring her that there was no need for a new duck, I high-tailed it home. A wash and dry later, Baby Ducky is almost good as new. Sure, he's half blind and probably emotionally scarred by his fiasco. But he was dragged around all day, and even accompanied Otter on a picnic. He may still be banished from bed, but he's definitely back in the fold. Welcome home, Baby Ducky!

Epilogue

21 months ago, the Thursday I came home from the hospital with my brand new baby, my parents sat me down and told me that, that March, my father had been diagnosed with lung cancer.

From that day forward, his illness had been irreversibly linked to my daughter. As she grew and developed, so did his disease. As I wondered what unexpected turns she would take, I also tried to predict how my father would fare. Not that it was all doom and gloom - for a long time he looked and felt well - for those who didn't know him well, there was no discernible difference. And for us it was a time of catching the moments we could, while trying not to focus on the day that would no longer be possible. There were extra trips to see the grandparents, stolen weekends in Cambria, and an attempt to capture the uncapturable - to use a cliche, time in a bottle.

But all things eventually come to an end, and on June 2, 2010 my father lost his fight with the disease that, towards the end, ravaged him, sending shock waves through all those around him. He was 63 years old.

I've long imagined if, and how I would write this entry. And now, as I type out the words, it's not coming out like I intended - it rings false and hollow and doesn't capture the man that my father was. But write it I must, because I want to record, even in this halting entry, that doesn't begin to do him justice, a fraction of what he was.

My daughter will never know her grandfather. She won't remember the brief time they spent together, and no matter what I tell her about him, when she sees photos of them together, she will be looking at herself from a time she doesn't recall, with a stranger she never really knew. She won't know his jokes, or the fact he had famous Russian sayings for everything, or that he remembered everything he ever read. And he read a lot. She won't remember his smile, or the fact that he'd give the shirt off his back to anyone in need, before they ever asked. That he could, and would, strike up a conversation with anyone. That he made friends among his contemporaries and their children alike - and with equal ease. That he loved her with every fiber of his body. She will know about it, but she will not know it.

And that is why it is important, imperative that I write it down, clumsily though it comes out. Because then one day, she may read this and know.