I slowed down outside the pet store today.

I could see a little dog moving behind the glass.

For a moment, I wanted to go inside.

Then guilt arrived so quickly that I kept walking.

What kind of person thinks about another pet already?

The question followed me for the rest of the day.

But I wasn’t actually replacing anyone.

I hadn’t bought a dog. I hadn’t even walked through the door.

I had simply felt warmth toward an animal.

For years, loving my dog trained me to notice dogs. To look at beds. To smile at puppies. To imagine taking care of something small.

Why would that part of me disappear because he died?

Maybe the ability to love another animal is not proof that the first love is fading.

Maybe it is one of the things that love taught me.

I still did not go inside.

I wasn’t ready.

But next time, if I want to look, I might let myself look.

Looking is not a promise.

And loving what is alive does not mean I have stopped loving who is gone.