Empty.

Your bed lies empty by the door. I don’t have the heart to move it. I try…oh, I try. But if I do, it means you’re really gone.

You can’t be really gone.

The silent air suffocates me. Air that once carried the pitter patter of warm puppy paws across the floor boards, the clanging of dog tags as you’d stretch and shake a long night’s sleep off each morning, now sits cold and still.

It’s hard to breathe.

Your bowls have been washed and dried, sitting quietly, needlessly in the cabinet. Waiting. Use me. Need me. But now, they sit empty.

Your leash waits by the door. Let’s go on a walk, it begs. But our final walk has been walked. Oh, how I wish we could go. Your footsteps echo through the halls. Just one more walk, they cry.

Just one more walk.

Your bag of treats sits unopened in the cabinet. You deserve a treat. You were a good boy. Such a good boy.

It’s hard to breathe.

Slowly, surely, your things get put away, one by one. The hushed echo of clanging dog tags and pitter patter of puppy paws will slowly fade from memory. The traces of you will slowly disappear, evidence of your warm heart and cold nose out of sight.

But not your bed. Your bed lies empty by the door.

So

So

Empty.

Kolby crossed the rainbow bridge on August 31, 2018.