Grateful. Sorry.

Bobby is staying with me this weekend. I picked him up on Thursday night and I'll return him like an extremely energetic library book on Monday before I go to work. We've been chasing sticks and walking with friends and appeasing the mean cats and it has been good. Really good. I've been writing in my head all the regular little fun things we've been doing so you can hear what a great dog he is.

A few minutes ago he climbed up onto the couch, not way down at the other end but right in the middle so his nose is breathing humid, toasty doggie breath on my chilly piggies. I reached out my hand to his head and a voice in my head, the same one that told me her name was Emily, said, "Grateful."

I'm so glad he's here. I'm glad he's so good and that he loves me. More than that, though, I'm simply glad he's alive, here on earth. Maybe just because or maybe because he was here before, when Emily was alive. Regardless, it's nice to have a word for what I've been feeling this weekend.

I've been having a hard time loving dogs lately. All dogs. It's wonderful to have a dog here who does not acknowledge anything less than devotion.