I miss my dog. He’s dead; he’s been dead for the past 9 years. I miss him as if he had gone yesterday. I don’t know how I have stood all these years without him. I remember our walks. The last months of his life were difficult and our walks reflected that. He couldn’t walk the way he had when he was well. They were jerky, often nervous walks. I wanted to make them less stressful for him, but I couldn’t. I would bend down and pet him, as if to reassure him that things would get better. He’d look up at me knowing they wouldn’t. Our small home was the only safe place for us. The streets had dangers and unfeeling people.