Ray told the girls about Ernie last night before bed. I didn’t know it was coming.

I walked into the living room to find the three of them on the couch, Ray and Annabelle in tears. Ray had told them simply that Ernie got sick and died (no gory details), like our dog, Elliot, who met his maker two summers ago.

Sophie didn’t get it.

This morning, Sophie said, “Ernie is sick.”

“No Sophie,” I said. “Ernie died.”

“Ernie died,” she repeated. “Elliot died.”

“Right.”

“Annabelle died.”

“NOOOOOOOOOOO!” I said, pointing. “Annabelle’s right there.”

Sophie immediately changed the subject.

Turning to me, she said, “You farted.”

I swear, I didn’t. Not that time.