My young dog

 

Sometimes, I miss my young Charly.  I miss her playful energy – taking a crouching stance in front of me inviting me to chase her.  I miss her game of tug of war with my pyjama pant leg as I’m walking, or with the sock I’m trying to put on.  I miss her fluid movements, and her flexibility.  I miss her muscled body.  I miss her black fur.  I miss communicating with her with words rather than signs and gestures.  More than anything, I miss running with her.  So much.

My head tells me that I shouldn’t miss these things – Charly is old and I should surely understand that…be grateful how loving she is…appreciate what she still can do, and who she is.  But, my heart can’t help it.  My puppy is gone.  My young dog is gone.  My middle-aged dog is gone.  I truly love my old dog…sometimes precisely because she is an old dog and is calmer and slower.  But the realization that I’ll never experience the past again; that I’ll never experience that Charly again, has only just sunk in.