My parents are still upset about the dog. They agree that the medicine wasn't working. They agree that Dad had to carry him everywhere. They agree that the rugs were ruined. But it's hard to let go of the ritual of watering the dog, of feeding the dog, of letting the dog inside. Harry was not a puppy when we adopted him. Someone Mom knew's son had an allergy to dog hair. We took him in. I was 11. He was a good dog, always sitting on the deck panting, showing his blue tongue. This last Thanksgiving, he didn't even play with the children as he always did. He used to chase every ball.

I remember how he used to dig under the fence and escape. A few hours later, we always saw him at the front door. Our neighbor, a Japanese-American woman that I had to keep my brother from whistling at said "Harry won't come home" when this happened. But he always did. Now I guess he's at home. But I'm still a bit upset about the dog.