Always leave them wanting more.

August first. Twenty Twenty Four. Eighteen Fifteen Eastern Daylight time. Six and a half years with Grace the Dog was not enough.

A couple months after we moved to Ohio, The Captain proposed adopting a five year old rescue Weimaraner. I resisted. She insisted.

In March of Twenty Eighteen, my daily routine changed. Every morning, around dawn, rain or shine, snow, sleet, or swarming locusts, Grace and I went for a walk of sufficient length to calm her natural energy and curiosity. Usually something just shy of an hour. Often we went for an easy evening mile after the Captain came home from work, too.

Being a dog, she explored, marked, and took ownership of all she surveyed. We had three main routes through a local park along the Scioto River. We rotated according to the day of the week. There were another half dozen longer and more interesting paths for weekends and holidays. In total, Grace and I covered around three thousand seven hundred miles. Maybe a little more. I retired four or five pairs of sneakers, and a couple pairs of boots.

Many mornings I saw the sun cross the horizon with Grace. We made friends with other dogs and their walkers. Some dogs were never friends, and kept at a distance. I learned a lot about dogs, but probably more about people.

During the day, Grace kept me company in the office or while doing chores. When I needed a break, Grace would lead the way up and down the street, often stopping to take in the warmth of the sun and the smell of the grass.

My morning routine is my own again. I’m of very mixed emotions about that. Surely there’s no animal as loyal as Grace, and I kind of feel like I didn’t do enough to earn it. I am just a flawed human after all. I miss that pup dearly, and I’m misty eyed just thinking about holding her as the life she shared with me turned cold in my hands. I really hope dogs go to heaven.