Remembrance of an Ottoman-Shaped Dog

It has been nearly a year since ottoman-shaped dog crossed to the beyond.  (I choose not to mark his passing on the anniversary of that particular day, for it would do him a disservice to dwell on his moment of death rather than to recall the decade of noble, stumpy-tail-wagging companionship he bestowed upon us.)  We have become accustomed to life without him, even though his name still comes up frequently and fondly. He is part of us, always.

Quiet, brave ottoman-shaped dog, you quivered with anticipation at all the simple joys of life:  a good meal, a walk around the block, a bird in the yard. You kept me company when I did my chores, following me from room to room as I distributed laundry or tidied up.  You provided solace when I was ill or sad by offering your serene presence. You had marvelous fur, soft and smooth and consoling to the touch. You loved blankets, and supervising neighborhood passers-by through the glass of the door, and snacks. And you waited ever so patiently in the front hall for me to return home, always.

Are you waiting for me in the front hall of another grand place now? It will take me the rest of my life to return to you.  If I can, I will.

Good boy, Thorbert.

To call him a dog hardly seems to do him justice, though inasmuch as he had four legs, a tail, and barked, I admit he was, to all outward appearances. But to those of us who knew him well, he was a perfect gentleman. ― Hermione Gingold