Last summer I lost my pug, Beau. He went to sleep one night and just didn’t wake up. He’d had breathing problems in the past, but I never expected him to go so suddenly like that. The house seems empty without his little pug feet padding from room to room and his little body curling up next to mine. Walks aren’t the same.
Right away friends urged me to get another dog, a replacement, but no dog could ever take the place of a best friend like Beau. He would sit with me each time I started a book, watch me at my desk through the process right up to when I put the finishing details into its completion. If you’re curious or counting, that’s more than twenty novels during Beau’s lifetime. He’d listen patiently, he had a knack for that, as I worked out scenes and read the dialogue out loud. Maybe that’s why writing my last three books hasn’t been the same. Our time together went by too fast and even though it’s been eight months, I don’t think I’m ready yet to look for another. When and if that time comes, I might mark the anniversary of his passing by accepting another dog into my life, not a pug though. I don’t want to go through the breathing problems again. I’ll pick one from a shelter this time. He or she won’t be a replacement. No one can ever take Beau’s place. Not even if I cloned him like Barbra Streisand did her beloved Sammie. Beau was Beau. And there will never be another like him. But don’t worry, when I do choose another dog, I’ll shower the lucky pooch with all the love I can muster. That’s a promise.