I'm having trouble writing about this. I'm not sure why. Maybe because I've numbed myself to the pain and writing about it makes the pain inevitable.
It has been more than a week. I'd hoped by now that I'd no longer imagine that I hear the clank of the tags on his collar or see him out of the corner of my eye.
Or call out, "Hello, buddy," when I walk in the door, having forgotten what happend last week.
Of course, I can't really hear him. Or see him, either, except in the wonderful portrait of him that a dear friend had done for me for Christmas.
Saying hello is futile, as well.
Baxter is gone.
The house is still and empty. It's as if all the air has been sucked out. 
It's hard to stay home, even harder to come home and not find him here.
I wrote a column a few years back when he wasn't doing well.
I wondered then if I'd know when it was time to say goodbye.
I knew. The time came all too soon. He was 14. A true gentleman to the end.
I have a hole in my heart.