All the king’s horses and all the king’s men couldn’t put my faceless ceramic dog back together again.
Well, maybe they could have — but they weren’t around. So I tried to fix it myself, armed with a mother’s determination and a tube of super glue.
Because I’m obsessive about fumes, I worked on the back patio while Clara napped, baby monitor in hand.
Almost immediately things started to go wrong.
Womp-womp. Nothing lined up properly; the pieces looked jagged and misaligned.
Some shards were simply too small to salvage, and a large chunk from the top of my beloved pup’s head was mysteriously missing. I entertained a few repair ideas: using plaster or putty to fill gaps, sanding and smoothing, then repainting the entire piece. Another option was to purposely break more of it and transform the remains into a headless lamp, umbrella stand, or planter — you all suggested great ideas when I first shared the mishap.
Still, the face is what made the ceramic dog special. Without it, the piece lost the charm and personality that drew me to it in the first place. There’s something about a face that gives a thing soul — the same way a person’s head is central to who they seem to be. So while creative repurposing is tempting, I found myself reluctant to compromise the pup’s identity.
In the end, I’m glad I tried to fix it, and surprisingly okay about letting it go. Maybe a giant ceramic dog in the hallway wouldn’t have been ideal once Clara starts toddling around anyway. I’m almost ready to move on — like Rose in Titanic, who vows never to let go and then releases Jack (for a short while, at least).
Not to worry: I still have my beautiful concrete greyhound to fill the void, and it’s doing a fine job of keeping the entryway company.