That day, I knelt beside his grave while Benny stood against my shoe, sniffing the grass.
« Don’t eat the flowers, my boy, » I told him.
Frank had been gone 18 months.
Benny lifted his cloudy eyes toward my voice.
Then he chewed faster.
I sighed.
« You’d have liked Frank. He would’ve fed you bacon and blamed me for cooking it. »
His tail tapped my ankle.
Benny was 14, blind, and missing four teeth. I’d adopted him eight months earlier after finding him at a shelter.
« You’d have liked Frank. »
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