I love you, my boy. I still remember that morning. I woke up like always — not expecting anything. You lived in the other room, so my first thought was: "I'll get up, walk out of my room, go to you, and pet you. I'll kiss you." It was our ritual. Every single day. For all seven years — from the very first day you came into our family. But that morning it didn't happen. They told me you were gone. Just like that — before I could even walk out of the room. Before I could pet you one last time. Before I could kiss you goodbye. I didn't make it. I didn't even get to say goodbye to you. Forgive me for everything, my boy.
Light a PawTap the floor to walk · Drag to look around
