Steve's epitath

"When all other friends desert, [a man's dog] remains. When riches take wings and reputation falls to pieces, he is as constant in his love as the sun in its journey through the heavens."

-George Graham Vest

In June, I lost my best friend, my hiking buddy, and my most reliable model. She -- Steve was a girl dog -- was just two months short of 14 years old. That is considered a normal life span for a dog of her size and lineage, but it makes the loss no less profound. It was almost fourteen years ago when a mixed-breed puppy was on her way to an animal shelter, the only dog in the litter that no one wanted. My daughter saw her and brought her home. Luck, fate, whatever, it was my good fortune, and Steve’s. Three months have gone by since she died and sometimes my mind plays tricks on me. I'll open the front door and expect her to be there, tail wagging, the way it used to be. For a moment, I’ll be surprised by her absence. I suppose this is normal. A long time ago, I read Lord Byron's epitaph to his dog. It follows:

In Memory of Steve

August, 1985 — June 7, 1999