Rosie, the other night Frieda and the other dogs were barking, and I thought there was something out in the road. This happened so many times in our time together, and so I said what I had always said, “Rosie, let’s get to work,” but you were not there. I could not bring Frieda, as she is too aggressive. Izzy would have not known what to do, and Lenore…well, Lenore is not a warrior. I went out by myself, with the flashlight, and found nothing. A few days later, Maria found a starving, dying dog out in the woods. You would have found him right away, led me right to him. I know it.

Sometimes, when I go out to the pasture, I wonder where you are. Are you over that bridge, waiting for me to come to you? I think not. I  hope not.

I think you are in your own heaven, not mine. When I look at this photo I took of you more than a year ago, in the morning mist, I think that this is where you are, and that you have sent me this image to show me where you have gone. This is your heaven, endless green and gold fields, legs that never tire, work that is never done, sheep and pasture beyond the horizon, beyond our sense of time and place. It makes me very happy to think of you there, where you belong.