I told him.
Naturally, he immediately tried.
I sighed.
“You would’ve liked Frank. He would’ve slipped you bacon under the table and then blamed me when you gained weight.”
Benny’s tail tapped against my ankle.
I’d adopted him eight months earlier from a shelter.
A volunteer had warned me that almost everyone passed him by.
“People want puppies,” she’d explained. “Whenever someone walks away, Benny starts crying.”
I understood that feeling better than I wanted to.
After Frank died, I learned how unbearably quiet a home could become when someone
