You  are  too big for my apartment.  Too big for my life.  That was what people told  me  anyway.

People  say  that  I  should  just  get  a  small dog,  like a  yorkie,  maybe a frenchie.  But  nothing

too big. Nothing that requires too much. Nothing like you: a 65lb Doberman pinscher who could

pull  a  sled  and obstinately eat off the breakfast table.  Sitting in my 350 square foot  studio,  I

agreed  with people. A 65lb Doberman pinscher would take up half of  this  room;  most  of  my

life. So when I went to the shelter, I went to look at a smaller dog. 20lbs. Sheltie’s face. But you

were there. Too big to ignore. Your back was turned to me, butt wiggling at the  anticipation  of

meal time,  and I knew right away that you are mine.  Too big but mine.  I took you home and  I

took  you on long walks 3 times a day. I worked in the office then, ran home at lunch hours  to

take   you out, then ran back to the office. You’re old now and the doctor found cancer in your

lymph  nodes.  I  try to imagine you not in the apartment you were too  big for.  I try to  remove

you from my life, a patch of fur at a time.  No more black fur in every crevice and corner. Then

I remove you a limb at a time. No more clicking of your nails on these hollow hardwood floors,

nor  the  weight of your paw on my dimpled thigh.  I  try to forget the sound of  your  breathing

and heavy silence drapes my life. That’s when I realized that people were right. You are too big.