Writing, wistfully

It’s 9 o’clock on Saturday morning, and I’m thinking of Sam. In the waning weeks of his life, we spent Saturday mornings tucked up on my couch together, while I worked on a sermon. He was at the TV end of things, with his head on the arm of the couch, and after the Today Show ended, he gave me a baleful look when some show about car-racing dogs began.

I changed the channel. He preferred that PBS show about dinosaurs on trains, I kid you not. He watched it peacefully while I got some work done, and then we went to the Farmer’s Market.

I miss him.

I’m learning new routines for Saturday mornings. I hope someday I’ll have a sermon-writing partner again. And I’m clear that any new dog to come along, of any age, will be different. But I’m thinking of Sam, and how he licked the oatmeal bowl and encouraged me at a very difficult time in his life and mine, turning his soft eyes toward me with love.

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