He storms into a room, which is also the world, that is also everything that surrounds us, paws clattering across the floor, any floor, all over the place, as big as a dog can possibly be, and as much of a dog as one dog deserves—and wishes—to be, two peering eyes, as dark as he is, and as honey-dew-colored as they want, for the dog lives in contradictions and wants and desires, as truly as any dog who is as loved as he is, and if this one has anything to say, anything at all, is that he'll be as much of a dog as he wills.

And oh boy, does he wills.

He is will itself, a force of nature, restless and playful, dashing forward, catching hearts along his way.

A big, bubbly, beautiful black thing.

And then he goes, for there are more rooms to sniff. And a dog-shaped void remains. But not really. Not quite. Not at all. He doesn't really leave, for he was always there. It endures. It lives on. It's the only thing the dog knows how to do, after all. And we, we have to go along, until we may meet again, and the claws and the clattering and the snout and the barks and the blustering being that he is comes along, telling us we are home again.