Remembering Tahoe

I've been thinking about my boy a lot lately and missing him so much it's like a phantom pain. I sit down to write, and he's not there, his soft ears near my knee where I absently stroked them trying to come up with something poiniant, if not poetic. He's not there to remind me to take a break, to dance in the kitchen, to wander the neighborhood, to smell the evening news. It's tough to write without your muse.

It's been a year and a half now. More and more often I find myself surfing the web instead of writing, popping by pet rescues, looking for the dog who's out there looking for me. Knowing when I see him, I will know him and he will know me. I know there will never be another Tahoe, unthinkable, I know, but perhaps there will be another dog and another day . . .