The absence of paws

Nobody warned me

how much of the house belonged to you.

Not your bed,

or your bowl,

or the toys still lying

where you last left them.

I expected those things to hurt.

I did not expect

the silence.

The absence of paws

following me from room to room.

The little sound of you settling down

once you had decided

wherever I was

was where you needed to be.

I did not expect to open the front door

and feel my heart prepare

for a welcome

that would never come again.

For years,

coming home meant you.

You never cared where I had been.

Never asked why I was late.

Never held yesterday against me.

You simply loved me

with your whole ridiculous heart

every single time I returned.

And now I come home

to stillness.

People say

you were a pet.

I know what they mean.

But they did not see

the ordinary Tuesday nights

when the world had exhausted me

and you quietly climbed beside me.

They did not see

how many tears disappeared

into your fur.

How many secrets

I told you

because you could never repeat them.

How often your breathing beside me

was enough to make the world

feel safe again.

You were there for versions of me

that no longer exist.

You watched years pass

without knowing they were years.

You grew older beside me

while I foolishly believed

we still had time.

Perhaps that is the bargain

we make when we love an animal.

They give us everything

without understanding

that their forever

will be shorter than ours.

And we accept

without understanding either.

Until one day

we are holding them

for the last time,

trying to fit a lifetime of gratitude

into a few whispered words.

You were loved.

You were loved.

You were so loved.

Now your bowl is gone.

Your bed has been moved.

Eventually,

I suppose,

the last of your fur

will disappear from the house.

But sometimes I still look down

before moving my feet,

careful not to step

where you used to sleep.

And for one tiny moment,

before I remember,

you are still here.