A year ago today, I held him for the last time. This is how I coped.

Reggie Cookies

Marcia wants me to make an altar.

I’ve paid her $150 to tell me this.

She also wants me to write a four page letter. Part one will be what I love about him. She said “loved” with a d, but I can’t. For me, it’s not over. Part two is my favorite moments together. Ha! As if that would ever fit onto four pages.

Parts 3 and 4 I couldn’t tell you because I stopped listening. I knew it was never going to happen. Why would I ever want to make it seem so final?

I made the altar. That was easy.

I could’ve made my entire place a shrine to him. I blew up four photos where he’s looking right at me, deep into my heart and soul. That was us. Always.

I placed some tea lights around the photos. And crystals, because Reggie was a healer. Added a few cards and gifts from friends. His little lamb, the only toy he ever cared about. A couple of his Gooberlicious treats, which we saved for special occasions.

I lit the candles. It was pretty. And it sucked.

Maybe I should write the letter. Maybe it would make the ball in my throat go away.

Or maybe --here’s a thought-- I should make cookies that look like Reggie. And bring them to the vet’s to thank them for being so good to us.

Yes! What a wacky and brilliant idea. For reasons known only to God, it made sense to me.

I jumped on my phone, googled Maltese cookie cutter, and found the perfect one on Amazon. I compared it to a photo of him, standing on the edge of our favorite beach path, surveying his kingdom and looking grand and full of life. The cookie cutter could have been inspired by this picture.

Four days later, it arrived. I was ready.

I don’t call myself a baker, but when I bake it’s pretty awesome.

I made a blueberry sour cream cake that wowed the maintenance guys so much they brought me a gorgeous new refrigerator...and there was nothing wrong with the old one. My pumpkin pies are requested at every Thanksgiving. One to share and one to leave behind. My white chocolate and cranberry Christmas cookies, also in demand. But I bake sporadically. Now that I’m back on low-carb, not at all.

But for Reggie, to honor Reggie, I will dance on the perilous edge of carb-world and make these damn cookies. I researched sugar cookie recipes and discovered that you need a special “no spread” dough when you’re using a cookie cutter...or your cookies will look straight out of a Salvador Dali painting.

Okay. Got it.

Who knew it would be so hard making these little suckers? The Reggie face was very intricate. Details for the eyes, the pupils, the eyebrows, little nose and his mustache. You would have to be very careful lifting the cutter out of the dough.

A real baker would have looked at this and said, “Girl, you’ve got your work cut out for you. You sure you don’t want to make a batch of simple chocolate chips? “

But for my boy, I would plunge ahead. The first batch came out like hockey pucks with a face. Too thick. But was I going to let them go to waste? Besides, I had to make sure the recipe was edible.

The second batch, I rolled the dough thinner. This had its good and bad points. Yes, they looked like actual cookies. but they were too thin and flimsy to make it to the cookie sheet. Some of the faces lost an eye, an ear, and half a mouth.

I balled up the dough and rolled it out again, remembering that the recipe said, “Don’t overwork the dough.” This is what i love about recipe writers. They really don’t want you to know how to make their impressive creations. They say passive aggressive things like don’t over work it, but give you no clue how to tell when you’re crossed the line. The same with “Beat until fluffy and don’t over mix.” How about if I beat YOU until fluffy?

After about three more batches --most of which I ate-- I started to get the feel for it. But now they weren’t white enough. How to make them whiter? I tried only using egg whites (you have to throw in an extra egg, I learned). It helped a little, but he still looked like a beige dog.

Then I discovered white sprinkles...very hard to get white sprinkles. I drove 40 minutes to find a Walmart that had them. Covered the cookies. They came out perfect. Except it was now three weeks later and a Friday. The vet’s office was closed. I gave some of the cookies to friends and the maintenance guys. Ate the rest.

By Monday, I finally had a batch good enough to bring to the vet’s office.

I put them on a pretty platter along with a card thanking them for their care. Every single one of them had come into the room on Reggie’s last morning to cry with me. My vet had hugged me close for what seemed like many minutes. They told me he was a really special boy. Maybe they said that to every one, but I don’t think so. Dr. Hannah said if she ever writes a children's book, it will be about Reggie. Who could ask for a better vet than that?

The hardest thing wasn’t going back to the place where I last held my boy. Or trading cookies for his ashes. Or the lonely drive home.

It also wasn’t  standing in the kitchen later, cleaning up, looking across the counter to his spot on the living room couch where he would watch me and often demand that I get over there and sit with him. It was a fun little game for him, acting like the boss of me. But honestly, no human has ever looked at me the way he did or had shown me so much loyalty. Reggie always made sure I knew he was mine and I was his.

The hardest thing is that there is no recipe for bringing him back. And no assurance that anyone will ever love me the way he did.

Even now, that’s still a hard thing to swallow.