It was quiet. Too quiet. I’d become accustomed to the patter of little feet following behind me, of constantly looking around my own feet to make sure I wasn’t about to step on her, to seeing her curled up in one of her many beds, to her snores and squeaky yawns, to impatient yaps when I didn’t let her back inside fast enough, to her theatrical spins and running about harum scarum as I prepared her food. It was too quiet. But she was everywhere I looked. From the beds still scattered about, the blankets she loved to burrow into, the few toys that she never played with on the ground, the gate across the hall to keep her from wandering, the stairs she needed to get on the bed. She was everywhere and nowhere. The hole she left behind was cavernous. And now here I sit, alone, wishing with all my heart that dogs’ lives weren’t so short and what I would have given to have more time.
