Dear Fergie. Some of the fondest memories I have of our time together was when we drove from Seattle over to the Washington coast for you to run free in the wide open sand, fetch your ball from the waves, and curl up next to me by the fire in our little rented cabin.
One July day when we went to the beach it was covered in thick fog. You ran ahead of me, so happy to be free in the cool air and wind, but the fog was so thick that you couldn’t see very far. You’d run and then stop to turn around and look for me, because you didn’t want to lose sight of me in the dense fog.
Ever since you were a puppy you had separation anxiety, born from the emotional trauma of being dumped at the shelter at just six months old. I knew your tender heart better than anyone else ever could have, and I always made sure you knew where I was and were ok.
So we did a little dance on that beach, with you running ahead, and then stopping, waiting for me to catch up. When I caught up with you, you’d nudge my hand with your nose and then run like the wind again.
You were so wild and free and filled with vitality, and always wanted to go off and explore, but in the end your heart was always tethered to mine, and you could never go too far. I was your whole world. What you don’t know is you that were mine too.