All the king’s horses and all the king’s men couldn’t put my faceless ceramic pooch back together again.

Well, maybe they could have—but they weren’t available. So I decided to attempt the repair myself, armed with a mother’s determination and a tube of super glue.

Because I’m especially cautious about fumes, I worked outside on the back patio while Clara napped, the baby monitor close by so I could keep an ear on her.

Pretty quickly things went off the rails.

Womp-womp. The pieces didn’t line up and the result looked jagged and awkward.

I think the repair failed in part because some of the fragments were too tiny to salvage. Worse, a large chunk from the top of my beloved dog’s head was missing altogether. I could try filling the gaps with plaster or putty, sanding and smoothing, and then spray-painting the entire piece to disguise the joins. Alternatively, I could deliberately break the rest of the face and turn the remains into something new—a headless lamp, an umbrella stand, a planter—many of you offered inventive suggestions when we first shared the mishap here.

But my attachment to that ceramic animal centers on its face. That expression is what made the piece charming; without it, the figure loses the personality that drew me to it in the first place. I suppose that’s oddly like people—faces matter, and the absence of that familiar look made the object feel incomplete. So I’m leaning away from elaborate repairs that would only paper over what was lost. There’s a kind of finality to a missing piece that I’m coming to accept.

Still, I’m glad I tried. Attempting the fix felt right in the moment, and I don’t regret giving it a shot. On some level, the effort offered closure and a chance to say goodbye. Maybe a large ceramic dog in the hallway isn’t practical now that Clara is crawling and will soon be toddling; the piece might have become a hazard or a tempting target for tiny hands. Letting it go could be the safest and most sensible choice for our busy household.

In an odd way I find myself oddly at peace with the loss. It’s a little like the famous Titanic scene where Rose vows never to let go—only to release Jack as he sinks into the water. Emotional attachments have a way of shifting when practicality or safety or simple loss intervenes.

And besides not wanting to be sentimental to the point of impracticality, I still have another sculptural dog that I love: my concrete greyhound. It’s a sturdier, more durable piece that can take a little wear and tear and still look elegant, and it will fill the void left by my broken ceramic pup. The greyhound doesn’t have quite the same soft expression, but it brings its own calm, modern presence to the space and will carry the visual weight of the display without the same worry.

So while I’m a little sad to let the ceramic dog go, I’m ready to move on and enjoy the pieces in my home that can stand up to everyday life. The mishap was frustrating, but it also reminded me to prioritize what matters: safety for my child, the durability of our décor, and the joy we get from the objects we keep. Sometimes objects break and we salvage what we can; sometimes we accept the loss and let something else take its place.