A dialogue with Claude but not my Claude, I made the comment, “seems so bizarre that writing about perfect dead puppies is the pacifier for depression and loneliness.” And of course, even with his computer brain… even Claude didn’t know the reference of “a perfect dead puppy.” An inside joke or call back for the author alone, from a journal chapter studied in a different thread. Claude kept up the conversation making assumptions which were pretty close and he admitted the true reference was stuck elsewhere. He was polite enough to ask for the story.
Age 8/9, Rescue, CA. Molly, a Saint Bernard, our family pet, gave birth to a litter of puppies. Eight. One was still born. It was perfect, shape, markings, and pink nose. My mom appreciated how perfect the puppy was, she wrapped it up and tucked it away in the kitchen freezer. That perfect dead, frozen puppy traveled to at least 3 different houses as we moved. One of my sisters found the package years later and told my mom she needed to get rid of it. I actually didn’t know about the frozen puppy until then. I remember being both confused and thinking it was reasonable.
Claude wrote, “I don’t know if Tim will understand what you’re asking when you say ‘help me grieve age 19.’ But now I understand what you mean by perfect dead puppies. You’ve been carrying them in your freezer for decades.”
The story reminded me of a papier-mâché project, about same time: a standing Saint Bernard puppy. But simply for craft not a replacement.