I keep looking, to see where you are, but you’re not here.
I keep checking to see if you’re at the top of the back stairs, waiting for momma to come up from the basement, but you’re not there.
I keep listening for the sound of your tail on the floor, the secret signal that said “Dad? Belly rub, please,” but there is no sound.
I keep hoping for the touch of that scratchy velvet tongue, giving kisses of greeting or licking my toes at the end of the day, but they’re gone.
For 12 years, you’ve been a friend, a packmate, a cheerleader, a source of unconditional love, a whole bundle of four-legged fur therapy, and a giver of joy and laughter, the sort that will never be found again. There will be joy, there will be laughter, but never the special kind you created.
When I nearly lost my mind with grief, you were my link to sanity. You kept me here, you kept me moving, you gave me a reason to be and not to just sit in despair. You were a companion in a lonely season.
12 years? Not nearly long enough.
Thank you, Ezri. We love you, we cry at your departure, and we will miss you.
Run through fields, with no stiffness or pain in those pesky back legs. Smell amazing smells, see wonderful sights, and have all those splendid dreams that made you twitch and move around the living room floor.