All the king’s horses and all the king’s men couldn’t put my faceless ceramic pooch back together.
Well, maybe they could have — but they weren’t around. So I tackled the job myself, armed with a mother’s stubbornness and some super glue.
Because I’m paranoid about fumes, I worked on the back patio while Clara napped (baby monitor in hand).
Pretty quickly things started going wrong.
Womp-womp. Pieces didn’t match up, edges were jagged, and the whole thing looked off.
Some shards were simply too small to salvage, and a large chunk from the top of my pup’s head was mysteriously missing. I could try filling gaps with plaster or putty, smoothing the surface, and repainting the whole piece. Or I could purposefully break more of it and turn the remains into a headless lamp, umbrella stand, or planter (you all suggested great ideas when we first shared the mishap). But for me the face is the defining feature — it’s what makes the ceramic dog sweet and charming. Without it he’s just not the same. I guess heads matter to me, what can I say.
Still, I’m glad I tried, and surprisingly okay with letting go. Maybe a giant ceramic dog in the hallway wouldn’t be safe once Clara starts toddling. I might be ready to move on from my beloved little sculpture. Like Rose says she’ll never let go in Titanic — then lets go of Leo and he sinks (skip to 3 minutes) — I’m learning to release it.
Besides, I’m not heartless: I still have my gorgeous concrete greyhound to fill the void.