Tommy, my beloved German shepherd died.  He was only 6 years old – too young even judging by dog year.  I can still remember the day I saw him, a cute puppy who loved a particular sleeping position: lying on his tummy while sticking out his four limbs.  Even though I had to go back to Toronto when the Summer ended, I could not resist bringing him home.  He was also unbelievably fond of sleeping, which suited me perfectly well. 

I named him after my ex.  It seemed like a good idea back then, albeit not so classy on my part.  But eventually, dog Tommy replaced human Tommy, and I no longer felt the pain in my heart when I said or heard the name again.  My plan worked. 

The next Summer I went back to home, Tommy was already fully grown.  He looked at me cooly first, perhaps to size me up.  I thought he forgot about me, but 20 seconds later, he jumped up and (literally) hugged me.  This happens every time I go back home.  And I will miss him terribly the next time I am home. 

Rest in peace, dear Tommy.  I hope you didn’t think I abandoned or forgot about you.  I didn’t.  I will never.

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