We moved when I was ten. From a post-war bungalow in a city suburb to a 1960s colonial in a wooded development in a town so small we had one cop and no post office. And we got a dog.

Taffy. My mother had no clue how to take care of a pet. She never had one growing up. I can’t fault her, I suppose. But Taffy was allowed to run free. She chased cars. A neighbor accused us of letting Taffy teach their dog to chase cars. I doubted that at ten and I still doubt it to this day.

But Taffy was hit by a car. The one and only time I ever saw my dad cry. Maybe for us—my sister and I—or maybe he was reliving his own dog’s passing. There is a picture of my dad as a young kid with his father, his brother, and his black dog.

I don’t know if I have it or a copy of it or if one of my sisters has it. Or I just remember seeing it. I don’t have a picture of Taffy.

I’ve lost other dogs. I’ve always had them. And I’m old, and humans live longer than dogs. And it’s sad. All of it.

I didn’t want to make anyone else sad. I wanted to post this picture. All of these dogs are gone too. This picture was taken somewhere between 2008 and 2010. I don’t remember. One of those dogs is Ruby, our first mini dachshund. Today we’re taking Scrumples to the vet. He turned seventeen this past March. He’s slow, blind, and gets disoriented.

We lost his sister on New Year’s Day this year. Not a great start to one. But like I said, we live longer than dogs.