Thereare two stuffies that belonged to Sgt. Thomas Tibbs within easy reach under mybed (Blue Bunny and Fuzzy Dog). I see them every day, and every day I tellmyself, “I’ll pull those out and do something with them… tomorrow.”

Thom’scollar and leash still hang on the hook (which I installed seven years ago forthat very purpose) just inside the door to the laundry room.

Thereare three carrots in a plastic bag in the crisper of my refrigerator that havebeen there for a month now. I need to get those out, too. Maybe take them to mysister’s horse. Because what’s the point of peeling and chopping up a carrot ifyour best boy isn’t there to share it with you?

That’swhy there’s a half of a bag of popcorn sitting on top of the fridge. I’m sureit’s stale by now. I’d open a bag and sit down to watch TV, and before long Thomaswould come trotting out to the living room, those impossibly soft ears up, thetip of his right ear flopping over. “Is there popcorn?” He could only have afew pieces, so I’d try to eat as much as I could before he appeared, so I couldtoss him a couple then make a big show of putting it away. “All gone, buddy. Allgone. Sorry.”

Thereare two plastic containers of very special dog treats—the ones Thomas could eatthat didn’t upset his very sensitive digestive system—sitting on the counter bythe pet food cupboard. Maya doesn’t care for them (because we are bothfortunate in that she can eat whatever she wants). How long will they sit therebefore I can bring myself to do something with them?

Aweek ago, while cleaning the kitchen, I moved all of Thom’s meds from thekitchen counter and put them on the highest shelf in the pet food cupboard.Why? I don’t know. By the time Maya needs any of them, they’ll be expired. But…you never know.

Myprofile pictures on Google, Twitter, and Instagram are pictures of Thomas. Myprofile picture on Amazon is a photo of me hugging Thom’s neck. When… how… do Ichange those?

My little Ford Ranger--good old "Cloud"--is filled with Thom's floofy hairs. Everywhere. Between the seats, under the seats. There are even some behind the clear plastic dash cover. How the heck they crept in there, I'll never know. I've been saying for years that I would sell the truck when Thomas didn't need it anymore. But... sigh.... With it will go a thousand memories--mostly good, driving him around in it while he stared out the back window, curious about the world that he was too frightened to view walking in daylight. Some bad ones involving vet visits for a bad ear or his bad belly or his bad shoulder. Or shots. No more shots, Thom. No more terror heading into the vet's office.

Atleast for the foreseeable future, every day that I make a piece of peanutbutter toast for breakfast will be a sad one. Because that’s how I finally gotTommy to take a treat from me. Every morning before work I would open the backslider and try to coax him inside with pieces of toast. At first, I’d lay asmall piece of crust on the floor. But he was too wary to step over thethreshold to get it. He’d crane his neck as far as he could, snatch it up, thenrun off to the yard to gulp it down. Finally one day, he put a foot in. Overtime, I moved the pieces closer to me in the kitchen. He would look at me, lookat the toast, and look back again, wondering if he could trust me. I ignoredhim and drank my tea. Someone suggested adding peanut butter to the toast.Total game changer. One day I looked up, and he was all the way in the house,waiting by the kitchen counter for another bite of deliciousness.

Seeinghim learn to trust was everything. Having him be comfortable living in thehouse took another year or so. But peanut butter toast started the process. Andit became a special time of sharing for us.

Inrecent years, I would put a piece of bread in the toaster, and before long Iwould hear his limping, old guy gait as he trotted slowly to the kitchen, thosegoofy ears asking the question: “Is there toast? And can it please have peanutbutter? Please?”

That’swhat I had for breakfast this morning. Peanut butter toast. Cheers, Tommy.Someday all of this will get… not easier, but perhaps a bit less challenging.And you, my sweet good boy—and all of your good successes—will never beforgotten.