My dog passed on. It’s been eight years. He seemed to be the saddest dog in the shelter when I found him, and it broke my heart, and right then I knew we belonged together. That’s the way we were for fourteen years. Inseparable. As he aged, I thought of getting another dog, somewhat younger. My dog was kind and gentle, and I knew it wouldn’t be a problem for him. I didn’t. We remained as we were. Just the two of us. Time passed. His paws turned gray. He began to move slowly, then not much at all. He drew even closer to my side. Somehow, he knew our time together was coming to a close. And when he died in my arms as he took his last three breaths, and as my tears hit his muzzle, I knew there would not be another.