Surfer Dog — Elizabeth Spurr

Each time I head out to sea, I try to picture Blackie leading the way. Which wave would he take? Turn or wait? Sometimes I guess right; just as often, I miss. With every good wave, right after I kick out, I still find myself searching the shore for Blackie, listening for his bark of approval.

At night I still wad up a couple of pillows to make a lump at the foot of my bed. I pretend Blackie's lying on my feet. It's the only way I can get to sleep.

Is there any cure for loving a dog?