The Torment of Absence

What a relief. No longer
a need to fill his water bowl,
to find a space in bed not
occupied by his warm
little body. No complaints
when his dinner is overdue.
No need to clip his nails,
brush his haircoat, trim 
his face and tiny paws,
take him for long woodland
walks, or to the detested
veterinarian. He's gone,
no need to share sofa space,
caution him not to bark,
nor be concerned his hearing
is going, his eyesight
impaired so he can longer
negotiate stairs. His hair
getting thin, his strange
new bumps, his long naps.
He's gone. Left us. Now
the only need is to 
somehow, miraculously, 
restore his presence.