Hope, Knowledge, and Sadness.

A few weeks ago, Julie moved south to go to school, taking E-M-M-A with her. As a practical matter, this simplifies things greatly. Emma was a loving linebacker of a dog, and I don't have to worry as much about her snapping one of Oz's legs or biting her bloody. (Lest these seem overprotective, both have happened. When Oz's leg was marginal, Emma hit her so hard Oz couldn't walk on it, and at least three different dogs have been left with bloody snouts from Emma, one that got infected, producing a trip to the vet.) This means we can W up that road without fear. That should be good, right?

On the down side, Emma is Oz's favorite. Or make that Oz's Favorite Dog In The WORLD!

This means that that every time we walk near there, Oz smells the grass. She stares at the empty kennel out back; she stares at the garage she used to visit E in. When the garage door's open, she's sure that means Emma is back. But no.

This requires coaxing, but at that, it's still better than Sammy. Sammy (or Sammy!) is Oz's cat friend. Or rather, Sammy was Oz's cat friend. We haven't seen Sammy for a month, and I fear the worst. Sammy was a strange and wonderful cat. He come running across three yards to rub against Oz. I'm great with cats, but he'd go to Oz first, me second. He was fearless, loving, and fond of Oz.

And he was also old and creaky. And the cul-de-sac where he lives. Lived. Lives. Anyway. His house is right next to a huge tract of woods, where coyotes still run. He had full run to come and go—his humans left the garage door open about six inches for him—and I'm afraid he's just left.

But Oz doesn't know. Oz just knows that this is Sammy's house. Oz leads me to the garage door. To the truck Sammy used to sleep on. To the bush he liked. To the turned over garbage can Sammy had once used as a sunbed. And repeat the cycle. Oz stares at me, waiting for me to meow Sammy forth. When I do meow, she stares at the garage, waiting.

Jesus.