What Comes Next

My mean little red puppy who turned into my sweet big red dog is tired. The boy who would dig through garbage to find a morsel of bread at the bottom of the trash can, or who would sit up with two paws on a chair to lick the remains off an unattended plate ... he's not hungry. The vet told me today that it may be time to think about What Comes Next.

I don't want to, but I am.

When I have to, I will pet his head and scratch his soft ears and hold him tight and let him go.

But I don't want to. I don't want to more than I've ever not wanted anything before.

He will always be with us, always be our boy, our buddy, our first. We just won't be able to see him or pet him or get him to clean up the crumbs the kids leave on the dining room floor or nag at him to stop licking his paws or tell him that growling at the thunder doesn't make it go away. We'll only have those memories that will hurt like hell for a while.

But for now he's here. He's touchable, smellable, huggable.

I'm going to make the most of it.