It was Barkley's favorite place to see, looking out on the water, the ducks. With windows on three sides of the little room, the other side open to the living room where I would spend my evenings, it was his favorite spot. There were also other people he could sometimes see, a little neighbor girl who would go down near the waters edge while her Mom looked on, shouting out "Aflac!" to the ducks, which always cracked me up.
This is also the spot from which he launched himself that night when the teens were smoking on my property and I told him "Barking good!" a story which those of you who have read the Book of Barkley will remember. Good times.
I gave this couch to a friends daughter when she got her first apartment and was I was selling my house. It certainly had a lot of dog hair on it, but was still in good shape, but in downsizing I didn't need it.
I look at it, in pictures now, and I look at him, and am still in wonder at a creature who looked on the entire world with a happy and incorrigible conviction of the inherent goodness in all people. That yard was his whole world, from which he barked equally at geese, teenagers, and squirrels. If I close my eyes, I can still see him as I called him back in, running as fast as he could across the expanse, the vain stippling of shadows across the green grass, suddenly broken by a moving dashed line of black, running back to me, back to his escaped shape of love.
And HIS couch. For it ceased to be mine when I moved it home, even though I tried to keep him off of it by putting pillows or other objects on it.
Don't ask, don't tell.