Today you weren’t there in bed when I reached out to make sure I didn’t sit on you coming back from the bathroom.

Today was the first day you didn’t get up with me in the wee hours when I couldn’t sleep.

Today, I wept in the dark when I smelled you on the blanket on the couch after I’d pulled it up under my chin.

Today was the first day I didn’t take you for a walk.

We had to go out, and didn’t have to close the gate when we returned. We didn’t have to rush home to let you out, a task that was so important these last weeks as your health faded. You weren’t at the door when I unlocked it.

I made dinner and you weren’t under foot. We didn’t have to make up your bowl before we ate. We didn’t have to let you out 3 minutes after we sat down to eat. You didn’t eat the bread we dropped on the floor. You weren’t there to try and steel food from our plates.

In an hour, you won’t be at my feet, reminding me that it’s time for your nightly frozen Kong. You won’t run to that particular spot in the living room, tailing wagging, looking back and forth from where I’m supposed to drop your food and then to my face, anticipation and excitement in your eyes.

Today was the first day in a hollow, still house, a house with a hole I swear was left by a 22-pound dog, but feels like an abyss, crushing my heart.

We loved you so much, maybe more than we should’ve. We still do and there lies so much pain and sorrow. I hope you knew that we were doing everything we could and we ran out of things to do. We told you over and over how much we loved you at the end. I hope you heard us, through sobs and sedatives.

Goodbye Parker. I’m sorry your time was so short. You deserved a long life but a cruel universe took you anyway.

Today I miss my dog. And I always will.