Our last day.
Today you can drool on my arm. Every time you want a treat, you shall get one. Stretch your long skinny body out in the sunshine. Take over most of the bed. Bark at the cat.
After nine years, our last day is today. I have watched you grow from a handful of white fur with coal black eyes and nose into a majestic boxer-king, ruling his domain. I taught you to poop outside, not bite cats or kids, never counter-cruise and to stay off the white couch. You taught me to love, trust and respect.
Together we jumped waves at the beach, took long road trips, adopted siblings of other species, made people mad and yell, and snuggled together to sleep most every night for nine years.
You made my home a home and my life a life.
I owe you a peaceful and painless transition and tomorrow will hold you in my loving arms as I let you go to await me in our next place together.