one less

My parents are leaving today for the trip back to Alabama.
I still can't believe my parents live in Alabama, but that's another story.
I wish they didn't have to leave. I dread the prospect of being by myself. I say this, typing on my new laptop, with Mollie sitting on my shoulder. But I am missing the rest. Living at our house is one less.
I remember the day I met Petey. I had just moved to this house and had a big back yard. It made sense to get a dog who'd keep me company. I found him at a shelter event at a local PetSmart. When I found him, he was quietly cowering away from all the other dogs. Well treated, he just hated that atmosphere - stifling, sharing space and air with so many other dogs.
He was the poster child for Only Children. When I lifted him up and put him on top of a stack of feed bags for a closer examination, he hugged the ground like a soldier under fire.
So I picked him. Because he needed to be out of all that madness. He needed one special person to love him, not a house full of kids or chaos.
We got on immediately. And I had a big plus in my favor. I had a huge fenced in backyard, and it belonged to him, even more than it belonged to me. I would stand at the kitchen sink and laugh at him, because he looked like a royal black lion, stretched in the sun, staring out across his domain. He would spend hours there, munching on pinecones. Yes, pinecones. That image shares space in my mind with how much he just... LOVED... it there. When I opened the gate, he'd gallop into the backyard like a gazelle, his little butt bouncing through the grass. Years dropped away from him in that yard. Each time, it was like he was a spring chicken. Even when he wasn't.
I also have this flash of memory, the first time I brought a bucket of KFC in the house. I could tell he liked the smell, so I gave him a taste. That was all it took. I ignored this love affair with chicken, went to another room for something, and returned to find Petey, standing on the table, right in the center, with his face buried in the KFC box. He knew it was wrong. He knew he was going to be punished, and he was unreptentant.
It was worth it, his face told me.
He didn't do a lot of bad things, but when he was, that was usually the attitude he had.
And because of it, today our house is one less.
So Friday night, I have to say. The fine escape act he performed wasn't worth the cost. Not for me. I hope it was for him. I truly do.
It's healthy to say that he went doing exactly what he wanted to do. It's healthy to say that he's now buried exactly where he had his happiest days. It's comforting to know he's no longer scared or in pain from his accident. I feel so grateful that someone gave me the gift of returning him to me so his last minutes were with me, kissing his thick furry ears and talking to him calmly like we were on the couch at home.
And I'm mindful of all those things. And I'm still heartbroken.

--Laura