The second meandering, with my dog

I always remember the last scene of 'Marley and Me,' when John Grogan runs his hands up and down his labrador's body, stroking his otter tail, webbed feet, strong ribcage and velvety ears, and I always remember what he said: 'I'm looking again. It all kind of blurs into one, you know?'
I know. I can't think of any lab owner who wouldn't.
Labs are not a normal breed of dog. Never believe anyone who tells you otherwise. They're almost like baby substitutes, big, Bambi-eyed, bandy legged barrels, ambling through your living room with effortless grace prior to smacking their head on the French doors and sending your Relentless can flying sixty feet across the room.
Sometimes, when I'm sat still and Millie, my four year old lab, is trying to amble into the (I flatter myself) tiny triangle of my lap, like she did when she was a puppy, I remember those words and I have to touch her again, stroke her warm, soft ears and smooth black fur, look at her eyes and try and describe them - people always want to give them a delicious colour, chocolate brown or ice blue. Not Millie. Gravy brown. Thick, dependable and adorable gravy brown. That's Millie. Not special at all physically, but you couldn't have a family meal without her clinging to the plate. Like gravy itself, I guess.
It frustrates me sometimes. Knowing that time passes. Knowing that I can't, for the life of me, capture today, that moment when I'm lying next to Peter and I can't capture those tiny wings of freckle beneath his eyes, invisible unless you know they're there. His Mum's eyes, a warm ice blue, like the ocean in travel brochures, beautiful but welcoming. His face, always so lovingly pale, and his long eyelashes, his small ears. I can't capture him, but maybe that's why I try. I can't capture my brother's face, the twin of my grandfather, heavy with freckles, the brightest blue eyes, my mum's tan face and my Dad's hair. My Mum. Tanned, beautiful, but sturdy, strong, Cornish. Dark curly hair, so like mine, but my face is all Dad - plump, pale, a strong nose that makes me look haughty, whether I will or no, and my Dad's eyes. My Nan's eyes.
I can't capture this family tree at all for you. But it's enough to know it exists. It existed, at one time. How's that for a cultural artefact?
Maybe no-one cares what my family's faces look like. Maybe they won't care in the future either. But people care, or should care, that people see these things and love them. That's what writers communicate. That's why we do what we do.