Quarter to two this morning I woke to a text from my friend Andrew. I suppose friend isn't exactly the right word. We became acquainted online making dueling photoshops of Mitch English. Somewhere along the line he became the closest thing to a little brother I've ever known.
He told me that Harry had died. He'd come home and found him, still warm.
And all at once it was a Friday back in 2006 in a vet's office, rubbing Arthur's head and scratching his ears for the last time. Because of that moment, because it comes back so easily to me, I know there's nothing I can tell him to make it better.
I wish there was. All he's going to hear is people telling him that they're sorry, and that it will get easier. Maybe for some people and some dogs, it does.
Then again, sometimes we are paired with our better selves. When they leave us, a little bit of our soul dies.