This summer, it went horribly wrong. Shortly after arriving at the farm, George ran away. For several days there were sightings, but when strangers approached him, George ran. He didn’t know. He was scared. Our emotions spiked with each report, until we received the call. A driver had hit him. George was making his way back to the farm. The road on which he was killed was the last big one he had to cross to safety.

During our morning walks, my wife and I make plans. I had always assumed when we made those plans that George would see them through with us. He’d sprint through the gap we’d create by taking down that tree; he’d scratch at the door of the writer’s shed we’d build someday. When the kids went to college and returned home, George would consecrate the reentry ritual, walking us with the benediction of unconditional love that I hoped would settle over those visits.

The sorrow is pungent. George’s love may have been unconditional, but he loved my wife the most. Nurturers can sense one another. He did not come down in the morning when I made my coffee and started my work, but when Anne put her first foot out of bed, I knew it from the collar rattle two floors above. The soft landing from the jump off the couch, the toenails descending the wood stairs. The three-part harmony was my signal to come out of the office and make her tea. Now the stairs are quiet at daybreak. When there is a dog in the house, you are never alone. Now, even when we are all home, it can feel lonesome.