Last week my housemate and I lost a friend…a crazy friend. A friend I sometimes wanted to kill myself, but a friend none the less. The home feels empty without our little dog, full of spirit, chasing screaming children. There is no more scratching at the door in the morning, no more frantic jumping on and humping of people who enter our home. But I find the quiet boring, unsettling. I find myself wishing that as I was reading my book outside, he would be prancing about, barking at everything that passed by. I miss laughing at his crazy antics, his endless energy. I miss racing in and out of doors before he charged in; it doesn’t feel right to leave the door open. I find I want to close the door just to imagine he is on the other side. I know he was a truly terrible dog and never listened, but I know he had a good heart, a happy heart, and that the whole world around him was an adventure, was exciting, and he couldn’t resist enjoying every minute. There was no time for rules, only endless pleasure and frolicking about. I love him for this, that he truly saw the beauty in everything around him like it was new. And it is for this reason, I feel a part of my home here in Copan is missing, and I wish he were here. We found a perfect spot for him overlooking a field and mountains, near a bubbling river. I imagine him chasing children and butterflies through the field, and I chuckle inside.