(I submitted this essay to the NPR series This I Believe several years ago, after our dog Brownie died. Anyone who’s lost a beloved pet knows how difficult it can be)
I open the front door and step onto the tiled hallway floor. I grasp the brass doorknob of the coat closet, turn the handle, then reach in and shuffle the hooks on the coat rack. Before draping my jacket over the wire, I hear a flurry of rapid clicking sounds on the porcelain. By the time I hang my jacket, he’s lunging at my waist, panting heavily, gaping jowls and eyes afire.
While he was alive, I never thought of Brownie as being my best friend. He was the one, more than anyone else, who anticipated my arrival home. Sometimes, instead of accosting me at the coat closet, he’d rush into the den, and I’d hear his big…
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