My girlfriend died last week and now I have a dog. It’s not my dog, and I think it knows that because it won’t listen when I tell it to sit or leave me alone. I think the dog is sad too, which makes me feel only a little worse.

I watch it sit by my new front door, it’s ears tucked behind it’s chocolatey fur as it cries, muffled wails that escape from the hall and often reach my room. I know who it’s waiting for. I still don’t know why she left the dog to me.

My mother called last night and she asked me how I was doing. I told her about the whining. She offered to watch the dog for me but I told her that wasn’t necessary. I was almost glad to be trapped in this unfamiliar apartment with someone who misses her as much as I do. My mother said that it’s not the same thing, that a dog doesn’t understand death. I told her I didn’t either.

I carry in a folding chair and put it next to the door. We wait together.

The dog doesn’t whine anymore. I learned where to pet it. It still wags it’s tail when I play her voicemails.

We found a park at the end of a neighboring street. I sort through her old boxes searching for a leash. I find her smell trapped in her clothes. I find pictures that she forgot to frame. I find everything I need.

I think we’re friends now, as strange as that sounds. It stays up with me while I watch my late night shows. It sleeps in with me when I forget to set my alarm. It meets new people with me, and learns to love my old friends.

I caught it whining at the door today. At first I thought it was asking for you, until it pawed at the leash. We wander towards the park as it tugs eagerly on the lead, forcing me to move forward.

I watch it roll around the grass, wagging it’s forever-tangled tail. I can’t hold back my smile. It’s still not my dog, not really. It didn’t need to be. I think she knew that.