Two years ago my dog, Monkey, died in my arms. If I'm honest, I'm still not over it. She was my girl, my shadow. For awhile, I thought I was ready for a new dog, that I missed having a dog but really, I miss her.
She wasn't supposed to be our dog. We didn't want a puppy and she was six months old. We wanted to be the kind of people who were cool with adopting an older dog because they can be harder to find homes for. Plus, we're kind of lazy and puppies are work. "We think she's a great match for you," they said. "We'll just go meet her," we told each other. Of course she came home with us. Of course.
We were meant to be. She loved us and we loved her. She was a sixty pound ball of energetic love and we're still a little mad she left us so soon.
I know that one day I'll meet a dog and will know that "Of course that's my dog. Of course," but until then I'm cool visiting with other people's dogs, occasionally snorgling them inappropriately.