Closing Instagram, she puts her phone down, gleefully shouting, “We’re here, Blublee!”. Even in her mid-twenties, how Abigail speaks to Blu throws me back to when she was fifteen, just before my late wife began her battle with cancer.
Blu’s ears perk as she sits up after cuddling with Abbey in the back seat. I park by the open field. After downing what’s left of my coffee, I tap my son’s leg, “Yo Sal, leash her up.”
“Yup!” two years Abbey’s junior, Salvador, has an economy with words. He finishes texting his girlfriend, slips his phone into his Levi’s front pocket, then jumps out to leash Blu.