The house seems empty but I can still hear the tickity tackity of your nails finding the small spots of flooring left amongst all the throw rugs down to keep you from slipping.
The rugs are gone and I can now see my floor. I am happy that it is warming up outside so that the snow melts your paw prints from the endless walking around the house. I can’t yet run the vacuum in the office to clear them from the carpet that you paced in your sundowning moments.
Your nose prints remain on the patio door for now but your food bowls have been washed and stored away in the garage. You weren’t there today when I got home to greet me with panting breath, nor will you be there tomorrow. Your remains came today, so I know that you are home. I know that you are not struggling to stand any longer when you eat or go to the bathroom.
Thank you for the past 14 years Remy.
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