by Robert G. Archer
And suddenly my beloved dog was there, licking my face awake, pushing me out of dreams and into a day, and I knew that I was only confused because it must have been a very deep sleep, this was the only explanation for why I couldn’t seem to read the clock by the bed.
So I pulled on last night’s pants and shirt, where I’m sure I must have dropped them before I went to sleep, but strangely I couldn’t remember getting undressed or going to bed, or even what I did yesterday, but it would come to me, I was only groggy, that’s all.
And out I trudged into the living room to put on my shoes, and while I sat tying them on the couch Orson danced in impatient circles, ready for his morning walk. But as I reached for my cap the strangest thought struck me and I looked at him, my small little Maltese, my best friend for nearly five years.
I had the oddest sensation that I had once felt a very deep punch in the gut, swam through a thick ocean of a very big sadness, and it was about my dog. And I had the wisp of an idea that I seemed to have once thought I remembered that he had gotten sick, yes, he had gotten sick and then before I knew what was wrong, he had died. It almost seemed like I remembered it, after only a week of him not getting better but getting weaker and weaker, and the vet never giving me good news. And then he’d had his last day, trying to lift his head to look at me, and couldn’t, so I lifted it for him and he looked at me, almost as if he was saying goodbye and telling me he couldn’t hold on anymore, that he was so, so sorry and he hoped I would forgive him for not being stronger, and I told him that it was okay, it was all okay, that he could go to sleep now and then I let him go and he was gone.