Last night he tested that love. Within seconds he chewed the quilt my grandmother had made lovingly, removing part of the center.
My grandmother died in 1969. The quilt has traveled the world with me.
The quilt had a rainbow pattern made of nine piece squares alternating light and dark patterns within solid colors. The center was a black dog made from a dress I had before I was in Kindergarten. Much
of it was done when she could no longer see.
I'd just had the quilt repaired having picked out fabric carefully with the help of my mother-in-law.
It was in the second bedroom, which we call the snore room.
I am not into possessions. I want to own as little as possible, but this was more than a possession. It was a reflection of the most important woman in my life.
My husband, said and did all the right things. He did the masculine thing and wanted to fix it and called his mother to see what fabric she might have. He reassured me it would be better. And he hugged me. He told me we could make it even better.
I know we will find the red and orange fabric. I still have a little of the patterned fabric left over from the earlier repair and I am sure if my mother-in-law doesn't have what we need, we can find it in France or Switzerland.
I will sketch out how it should be done and take it the fabulous retouch guy that has done so many repairs and projects for us.
Sherlock was yelled at as he has never been yelled at before. Today, he has resorted to his normal good behavior and we are correcting his slight transgressions in the normal way.
I tell myself it is only a quilt. I tell myself, once again my husband has proved what a loving friend he is (although I wish it wasn't necessary). With all the terrible things in this world, I am safe even if my quilt wasn't.
I still love my dog.