The dog days of summer

Earlier this evening, when I was walking by the river, the sight of dogs walking, running, and sometimes sitting in their owners' bicycle baskets, reminded me of Congo. 

I mean it was more than a passing reminder.  I wished that I could hold him in my hands once more.  Just a couple of minutes to feel his fur, and to smell his breath, and to annoy him enough so that he would turn as if to bite but would end up giving me a big lick ...

It is amazing how much that tiny fellow has left a huge void.

After I came home, it occurred to me that it might be more than a mere coincidence that this was about the time of the year, five years ago, when the vet explained why he suddenly collapsed on the floor one day--he had a bad case of an enlarged heart.  The fellow had a big heart, literally and figuratively speaking.  But, the literal big heart was slowly killing him.
 
Congo lived for about six months after this medical diagnosis ... Every once in a while, I imagine hearing his slow, rhythmic tap-tap walk on the hardwood floor. 

And then I read this piece in the New Yorker about Cooper!

What I notice the most is the sound, or rather the absence of sounds: I miss the click of Cooper’s nails on the wooden floor, the jingling of his tags (so exasperating at times that we considered buying those rubber jingle-stoppers), and, because he was an itchy dog, the drum-major’s thump-thump-thump as he worked his back leg up and down to scratch behind his ear. I know I will experience phantom dog noises for a while.

Oh, yes, I know this feeling all too well.  Susan Orlean adds:

If therapists didn’t charge you and were willing to chase sticks, they would be dogs. The kindly and receptive silence, the respect for secrets, the inexhaustible supply of attention—these are a dog’s, and a therapist’s, finest qualities. Dogs, though, are more fun than therapists, more tender, more dear, and certainly more admiring.