it's been three years now

but when I stop to think about you, the hurt is as raw as the first night. I usually have plenty of words, but they all fail me when I try to explain how your leaving changed me.

I read miracle stories of reunions years later, and deep down I pray one day I'll have my own miracle. No one else believes it's possible, except maybe Pat. And probably Droz, but we haven't discussed the issue, really.

Did you even survive that night? Did you try to go onto the lake, or fall into someone's pool? Were you dognapped? Are you alive? Are you OK? Do you even remember me? I mourned you, and still mourn you, as much as I've ever mourned anyone. For a little while, I understood parents who kill their children to avoid losing them. If I can't have you, no one will. I truly wished you were dead, rather than with strangers who could never love you like I do. And that is such a scary thought, and a bad place to be.

Pat put your picture up all over town, and I called everyone I could. The guy who delivers the paper looked for you, too; mind you, he was just thinking of the reward. I promised God so many good deeds if he would just send you back my way...

Curiosity killed the cat, but what did it do to my pug? To think that if I had a single question to ask God, that's what it would be...because not knowing really is the worst.

...je t'aime, tite-pute, pis je m'ennuie toujours de toi...je t'envoie des bisous, pis des Greenies...