Barry doesn't understand the concept of weekends. At 5:00 he woke me up with a whimper and a wet nose in my eye. He had to go out, and nothing will deter him from getting my ass out of a comfortable, warm bed -- with the scent of him still lingering in my sheets from the night before.
I trodded downstairs with only one sock on and passed the foyer where less than 36 hours earlier he pulled the ultimate cheese move and gave me his favorite sweatshirt to wear for the weekend so I wouldn't miss him so much while he was back home in Toronto. Sometimes I forget that he's 37 and not a puberty-infected teenager.
Barry pounded at the sliding door waking me from my reverie and I bent down to clip the lead to his collar. My sore hips made me grimace at the pain of overuse. But it was a good pain. One that could best be relieved by continual activity and he has so generously offered to be my personal trainer.
Finally done with his business, Barry came back inside and we went back upstairs to a bed that suddenly seems much bigger and emptier than the night before. Not even a fuzzy, snoring dog curled up in my armpit under the covers could take his place.