The box, a small wooden oval not six inches across, has been sitting on our kitchen counter for a month. For a long time I refused to see it, willing myself not to look at the spot where it lay. It is impossibly light for what it holds, though it hurts me to heft it. For inside this plain, benign little box rest the ashes of my beloved French bulldog, Bodie.

Bodie, who never went by his very dignified AKC name, Sheri's Perfect Monsieur Charles Baudelaire, died on April 8 of a heart attack. It was sudden and practically in our arms, on a rainy Monday afternoon. He'd been in good health, though an x-ray had revealed bony growths on his spine that were causing him considerable discomfort. Arrangements had been made to see a specialist. Despite his pain, Bodie was eating well and seemed otherwise fine. On that afternoon, after a routine visit to the backyard, Mark carried him back into the house and placed him on his bed. He stroked him once, and then turned to me. I knew immediately that something was wrong. Rushing to Bodie, I lifted his face, rubbing my nose against his. Mark tried but could not find a heartbeat. Just that quickly, Bodie was gone.

We drove to our veterinary clinic in stunned silence, Bodie cradled on my lap. Dr. Mac was waiting, a stricken look on his face. He gently eased the dog from my arms, as Olivia waved and whispered, "Night, night Bo-bee." It was a terrible scene, made more awful by the sheer unexpectedness of it. We were supposed to be eating dinner or cleaning up toys, not taking our pet for an autopsy. Sick and dizzy and fighting back tears so as not to frighten the baby, I made my way back out in the rain to our car.

Bodie was a dignified little creature, vain of his regal looks and careful to avoid engaging in too much foolishness. He was a proud dog, never one to beg or whine for attention. He preferred instead to pose himself at your feet, cock his meaty head to one side, and tap gently at your foot or ankle with a chubby paw. He loved to be kissed, and was born for it, with a velvety face that begged to be rumpled and squeezed. Forget roughhousing - Bodie was strictly ornamental We used to joke that he was a couple of buttons and a row of fringe away from being a pillow. Though he enjoyed gnawing a bone or the occasional game of tug with his brother Champ, Bodie was far too important to be bothered with anything as inane as fetch or Frisbee. Toss a stick past Bodie and he all but sniffed, "Are you mad? Go get it yourself."

Bodie came into my life just months before my Grandma Blackhair died. His glossy black fur soaked up a lot of tears. A year later my first marriage ended - and Bodie was there. For a long time it was just me, Bodie, and Champ knocking around the house. Then came Mark and Eric, and eventually Olivia. Bodie was Bodie through it all, stalking about like displaced royalty while submitting to kisses, Halloween costumes, and reindeer antlers on his head at Christmas. I remember lying on the couch with him the day before Olivia was born, telling him, "You'll always be my baby too, Bodie." I think he understood, in his way.

Mr. Puffed-Up Wiggy Toad, Mr. Wiggy Pops, the Toad, the Bodester, Mr. Wiggly Buttons, Sir Munchy Paws - Bodie had at least a dozen names. Toward the end Olivia christened him Bo-bee, feeding him raisins and Cheerios, and occasionally bopping him on the head with a crayon when he failed to return the favor. Bodie liked to sit at her side during meals, knowing that her primitive fork skills guaranteed a few choice nibbles to fall his way. Olivia has finally stopped searching the house, though she stilll asks for him, still requests that I draw his picture. "Bo-bee?" she?ll inquire, shrugging her shoulders and holding up her palms. "He lives in our hearts now." I answer. She nods her head and solemnly repeats the word "heart" before trotting off to play.

When we allow ourselves to love, we open the door to grief. There is no having one without the other. It is a painful equation, one that we try to hedge with denial or willful forgetting. But animals, with their too-brief life spans force us again and again to acknowledge the truth: time passes. In what seemed a few short years Bodie aged from clumsy puppy to wizened old dog. Blind to his grizzled muzzle and paws, I refused to see how time had thickened his torso and slowed his gait. I tried to pretend that he'd be with me forever. I don't know if animals have souls. I don't know where they go when they die, or if we ever meet them again. Their gifts to us are earthbound - companionship, loyalty, unconditional love. The one thing we want most they cannot give us, and that is more time. Bodie's passing was swift, his suffering minimal, and he was not alone. These are blessings that I'm grateful for, though it doesn't diminish the shock or sorrow I feel at his loss.

As for Bodie's ashes, we're going to put them beneath the Japanese maple tree in the backyard. It's a cool, shady spot, right near the door with a good view of all the action. He liked it there. But the real Bodie, the faithful and loyal and clownish friend, will remain in our hearts, the only true home he ever knew.