On Dogs

Chudley’s beds, bowls, and toys are still where they’ve always been in our house. And we don’t intend on moving them any time soon. Not for now, at least. They seem like they are exactly where they are supposed to be, like nothing has changed. 

 

In fact, since moving home for the semester, I’ve convinced myself that he’s still here. I walk by our dining room, and peek at the corner chair—Chudley’s favorite lounging spot. I even find myself talking to him, as if he’s lying next to me with open ears. Like we haven’t missed a beat. When I open the door from the garage into the house, I still expect to hear the distinctive jingle of his collar, as he makes his way to investigate and greet. Our rambunctious, nineteen-pound guard dog, as we liked to say. I now have his nametag with me at all times, my heart swelling every time I hear or feel it in my pocket.

 

I know that he will stay with me for the rest of my life—both in my heart and mind. So, too, will the things he taught me: on routine, on listening and understanding, on love and family. He was—and will always be—the best dog, friend, and brother any boy could ask for. I wouldn’t be myself were it not for Chudley, and for that, I’ll be forever grateful.