Four years ago, September 10, 2011, was a typical late-summer Cape Cod afternoon, balmy, still, blue skies, the sunflowers and morning glories clinging to the last weeks of summer sun. He was nearly 15 years old at the time, somewhat frail, a little feeble, but my beautiful dog Buster was waiting in the front yard for me to come home from work. He greeted me as always, a wag of the tail, sloppy dog-kisses, sniffing my hands to get an idea of where I'd been and what I'd been doing. A few minutes later, Mark and I watched as he lay down on the grass and drew his last breath.
My heart broke that afternoon, and it has never really been the same since.
So, all these years later, here is my struggle: I can do a roll-call in my head of all the souls I've known who have moved on before me. I have lost both my parents, all my grandparents, most of my aunts and uncles, a few cousins and one beautiful young nephew who was taken long before his time. I've lost best friends, roommates, and countless buddies and pals along the way. I miss them all. I miss the way my mom used to gently stroke my skin when I was sick. I miss watching my nephew grow from a little boy into a man. I miss sharing memories with the one person on earth who made them with me. And I miss all the laughs and all the brilliant deeds they all could have done. But what I miss the most is Buster.
He never once held my hand. He never uttered a single word to me, took me to lunch, or cried in front of me. But if a genie from a bottle appeared to me today and told me that I could bring one soul back, the name I would give would be his. 
That sort of freaks me out a little, though. I mean, shouldn't I want my mom, or give my young nephew a second chance at life? I probably should. But when I finally do join that big party of the Dead, and they're all coming to greet me with their white robes and harps, the face I'm going to be looking for is going to be at knee-level.
I guess that's love, huh?
Miss you so much,  buddy.