A morning kiss to the trill of alarm clock bells precedes a duvet battle, hard-fought, rarely won.
A communal breakfast follows, in each other’s eyeline at all times, because that’s the way you like to eat.
We venture onto the Links, blinking through sheets of lashing rain. You shout at passing cyclists and I hold you back, my eyes recycling the same tired apology as they whizz by in hi-vis blurs.
Back home, you make a nest of blankets beside me, a nuzzling bundle of warmth, dozing in perfect bliss. I stroke your fur and feel my mind uncurl, my nerves unravel. It's like a superpower: without doing a thing, you make me feel like I can do anything.
And on the bad days, when I can’t see past these four walls, you are a window, a door, a glimmer in the dark. I look into your eyes and wonder, do you know what you’re doing? And if not, does that make it even more special?
Sometimes, I think about the time I almost lost you, the hollow terror and the insurmountable feeling that, somehow, I’d failed. But you were a fighter, stronger than I. You came back.
So, this is for you, my boy, so that long after you’re gone, and my mind relinquishes its memories of you, I will remember the hope you gave me.
And the time we had together.