Remembering Old Dogs

Every once in a while, I have woken up convinced I felt the weight of Tessa’s head resting on my ankle. For fifteen years, that’s where she slept – at the end of the bed, under the covers, her head resting on my foot or on my ankle. Later in life, she grew restless, tossing and turning and frequently waking me up in the process. I would wake up, and I would rub her head with my foot, and she’s sigh and settle down and go back to sleep.

Every once in a while, I wake up stroking a phantom with the side of my foot, and for those first few seconds, before I’m fully awake, I am sure I have felt her there, rubbing against me for confirmation that everything is OK, and that she can sleep.

I have always loved Jimmy Stewart. I am old enough to remember seeing him on the Johnny Carson show (which means I am old enough to remember Johnny Carson), and I can recall seeing him recite some of his poetry. I don’t remember seeing him recite this one, however.

I wish I did.