Sit on the rug or carpeting too long and you're bound to stand up with a bit of fur clinging to your clothes. I kind of like it. Like a piece of her is still there.

Come home from a long day and in your mind you hear her howls and whimpers of happiness as you come into the warmth of the house. You expect to see her, but she's not there.

I go upstairs for a moment. As I head toward the stairs, I expect to see her standing at the top of the stairs, ready to join me for the trip back downstairs, but she's not there.

I sit in silence during the daytime. No sound of clicking nails on the hardwood, nor sneezes or snores or coughs. I think I hear a tinkling of tags on a collar, but it is just the wind blowing the collar she no longer wears. She doesn't need it anymore.

Then there's the longing. A longing to see her greet me at the door one last time. A longing to grab her soft, floppy ears and talk cheerfully to her. A longing to take her on one last walk, as tiring as they were for her bad heart. A longing to have said goodbye.

Finally, there are things I am thankful for. Thankful for 10 happy years with her. Thankful for the pictures taken, the paw print painted and stamped on a plaster ornament. Too heavy to hang on our fake Christmas tree, it lies in the center of her collar on my dresser. Thankful for the tiny creature who always came to me when she was scared. The little puppy who crouched in that corner so many years ago.

Until we meet again.