The arithmetic of loving a dog has always been impossible.

Dogs are designed to pass before humans, as they could not bear being without their master. ~A Poet of Ardmore

Sixteen years ago, we made a bargain. You would give us your whole heart, every single day, asking for little more than a walk, a tennis ball, a warm place to sleep, and the chance to be wherever we were.

There was no ambiguity. Never wondering where we stood. Never mixed signals. You were simply there, in a world and at a time when few others would be.

You were the only dog the children ever knew. You taught them gentleness without speaking, loyalty without instruction, joy without effort. You watched squirrels with the seriousness of a philosopher and walked beside us through neighborhoods that slowly became memories themselves.

You possessed the gift of making everyone believe they were your favorite, while leaving no doubt that family came first. You became friends with everyone, two legs or four: Arthur, Ashley, Libbi; Chester, Diego, Coco; even a few cats. Whenever someone offered to watch you for a weekend, no one ever seemed in a hurry to give you back.

Your bark could rattle windows, but behind that booming voice lived a clown who wanted only to play ball. In sixteen years, I cannot remember you ever growling. I cannot remember you complaining. I cannot remember you holding a grudge.

Aside from one spectacular misunderstanding involving fireworks at Penn’s Creek, you never ran away. Home was not a place to you. Home was wherever your people were.

In return, sixteen years on, the bargain came due. Love asked the hardest thing it ever asks: to choose peace for someone else over more time for ourselves.

I do not regret how much I loved you.

Run well now, old friend.