I miss his fur. I would bury my face in its warm softness, rubbing him against my cheeks, temples, lips, throat. So incredibly soothing. A deep, daily pleasure that made my world more harmonious and sensual.He gave himself to me completely. Turning over and allowing me to stroke the orange marmalade fur on his tummy, I'd rake my fingers up and down his firm tender chest, and he would stretch out his legs in delight.
This was our ritual, every morning when I awoke, and nearly every evening. On Sunday afternoons he'd beckon me with his tail in the air, and we'd have our interlude of inter-species amour.
Romeo, Romeo, I need you to sleep on my face again. You showed me that compelling quality of the creature that lets itself be loved, and responds with undemanding, utterly complete love.
How I chewed on the kindly marrow of the comforting words friends gave me when he left, suddenly, one morning last spring, his amber body twisted slightly on the carpet, a little blood pooled below his mouth. My boneless golden god was gone, gone, gone.
I don't want to forget the bliss of our 14 years together, so perhaps, by choosing to keep his memory close, there's a part of me that never quite "heals." I don't mind. Romeo is worth it.