Two weeks ago, our beloved dog, Luna, left us too soon. One day, she was prancing to greet new or old friends that entered the house. The next, we had to say cruel goodbyes. Our small house, always full, now sits empty.

Luna’s preferred place was in the living room, atop a couch that rests in front of a picture window. She was able to lounge and keep a vigilant eye at the same time; it was the perfect perch. Luna didn’t care if anyone, or even a pair or trio of anyones, happened to be already present. If she sought repose, others had to adjust. She was not a small dog. Long-limbed Luna was a poodle mix of about forty pounds; her legs and tail draped over whoever failed to grasp their proper place in the hierarchy.

The picture window faced the road, which meant a walk or ride home was only complete when you spied Luna in her space. Most likely, the window would be fogged by, depending on the weather, her nose or tongue. While there, from the outside, she was never sharp lines, but a vapor of curls, maybe an impressionist’s vision of the essence of dog.

It is probably the mark of an easy life that Luna’s absence still lingers. In the receding shadow of a global pandemic that claimed millions, it seems especially silly to mourn a dog, even one as fantastic as Luna. But mourn we do. Life during the past eighteen months has felt more fragile than ever, full of deadly variables. Like any good dog, and Luna was a very good dog, she breathed joy into our mundane constants.

No day was complete until she found me. It would begin with an expectant gaze. Luna would put one paw on my leg, and the next on my chest. Finally, with two paws on the ground and two near my shoulders, she would just stare, waiting for obeisance. I could never deny Luna a few minutes of rubbing. When I hit the spot, on the right side of the rib cage, her spine would turn from an exclamation mark to a comma. My other hand would scratch her head, just behind the ears. Surely, while doing this, I would push more hair into the carpet or, if I was lucky, onto my dress pants.

We got Luna thinking she would shed very little. I have four daughters and one wife. All the females in the house prefer something like a full crown of glory, so our vacuum cleaners spend most of their energy on hair. They have all fought good fights, but they succumbed, eventually, to the strands of the Smith girls. Our dog, we soon realized, was just like the rest of the females in the brood. Luna left pieces of herself everywhere.