I would like to take them with me into my next life. What else would I do? Just let them go? I’ve been through so much with Michael that me forgetting about him just wasn’t an option. But I have no say in the matter. I’d have to push myself to remember, to continue to carry the memories that we’ve spent so long creating.

But what if I can’t remember? What if all I know is my name? What if all I can see are my brand new toes and my long legs, the body of a human?

Yes, I’ve always wondered what it would be like to “go on a date” with Theresa, or Cheyenne, or Sammy, or whoever Michael is seeing at that time. Sure, I’ve always wanted to bite in a piece of juicy, tender steak on my own without having to wait for scraps. And yeah, I mean dressing in different clothes instead of running around naked all the time seems pretty cool.

But what if all of my dog life goes to waste?

What I’ve been through, what Michael and I have been through, isn’t worth forgetting. Is it? Is it worth the chance for me to be someone I never could be as a dog? I don’t know. Is it possible that I will like who I become and want to move forward? Maybe.

It seems that I will find myself at a disadvantage. I won’t know who I am nevermind who I used to be. I won’t be able to quickly look back at the memories and remember the first time he gave me my favorite treat, or how it tasted, or how the world fell around me as I bit into its chewy goodness. I’ll look down at my fingers, which would finally be able to wrap themselves around a treat, in constant confusion, wondering if I’m missing a part of myself. As if some kind of magic had wisped parts of me away and hid them somewhere I can’t get to.

If I let myself go, there will be nothing.

And I’m not sure I’m ready for that.

I hear his footsteps as my thoughts fade away in my mind, and then his familiar voice rings through the air, “Louie?”

He comes around the corner and bends down to the ground as I force my big body to get up and move towards him. I turn my head and stare up at him, putting my tongue out. He laughs his usual laugh, and massages my head just the way I like it, “You hungry?”

Of course I was hungry. But have you seen me? I’m going on 37lbs when my recommended weight is only 20lbs. I’m severely overweight and my age doesn’t help. I can feel myself nearing the end, which is why I’m starting to think about this reincarnation stuff all over again. It boggles my mind how humans long for things and try to preserve things that just can’t be preserved. I just can’t be preserved, Michael.

He stood and walked over to the pantry cabinet, reaching inside for the famous blue box. He shook it in my face to excite me, but all my excitement had faded. I just can’t wag my tail crazily and jump around as much as my young self used to. I stuck my tongue out and gave him my hungry look, waiting for him to hand me my bacon-glazed treat. He paused and held the treat in his hand, before crouching down and feeding it to me, “I know, Louie. I know it’s almost time. Hang in there, bud.”

I wanted to hug him, like humans do, wrap my arms around him and let my head lay on his shoulder. I wanted to cry into his shirt and tell him, “You’ll be okay without me.”

But dogs don’t speak.

Dogs can’t speak.

Maybe becoming a human was the right thing to do. Letting go would hurt Michael, but maybe it was what was best for him.