He would have been 12 this month. I really thought I would be over it all by now. I get over divorces and surgeries in about six months. I figured I could get over the death of a dog in two. 

But he lingers. 

I've been asked a thousand times, "Are you going to get a new dog?" 

I thought about it, and I've had a lot of offers. For all I hear about the failings of the human race, there are yet so many still out there that are willing to step forward in another's time of need. Even strangers. 

I've had offers of bulldogs, beagle hounds, even a poodle, perish the thought, and, of course, other black Labs. I heard from a woman with a new litter of black Labs that had a paper trail on them dating back a century. 

I'm sorry. I just didn't want a dog with a more impressive pedigree than my own. 

And I worry about bringing up another dog during a puppy stage. I have a friend who was telling me, "My wife and I got a puppy once who chewed up our driveway." 

I didn't believe that. 

"I'm not lying," said my friend. "The dog chewed up the driveway. He found one loose piece of asphalt and started there. He pulled out that piece and chewed on it and then another piece and then another, until he had chewed-up asphalt chunks all over the yard and our driveway was dirt." 

Catfish, when he was a puppy, destroyed television remote-control devices and my eyeglasses. 

I miss his companionship. I had my place on the green couch in front of the television. His place was next to me. He would sprawl there and sleep like some kingly beast upon his padded divan as long as I would remain next to him. And that was his place. Anyone who dared take it while he was temporarily away would be met with a wretched stare and bark once Catfish wanted it back. 

And they would move. I doubt he actually would have bitten them if they hadn't, but they didn't know that, and, come to think about it, I'm not absolutely certain he wouldn't have, either. 

Evidence of him remains around the house. I found a chewed up golf ball on the floor the other day. That was his doing. 

Catfish grew out of the destructive stage at 3, but he would still maim something like an occasional golf ball if he happened to find it on the floor. 

His bag of food is still in the cupboard. I've just never gotten around to throwing it out. 

There's still a framed photograph of me holding him when he was a puppy in the den hallway. When he was alive I rarely noticed it. Now, it seems to catch my eye each time I walk past it. 

I miss him at night. I've got one of those elaborate alarm systems, but I'd felt even safer knowing that nothing would approach my house without meeting with Catfish's bark, which was astoundingly deep and loud. 

And I miss that bark when I come home. It never mattered what time I came home or where I had been. As soon as he would hear the car door slam in the driveway, he would start and he would keep it up until I opened the door. And then, there he would stand, tail awag, to greet me. My self- esteem always soared. 

I walk into an empty, silent house these days. I feel the difference in the deepest recesses of wherever it is my love resides. 

Two months. No whining and pawing on the door to go outside. No thrilled bellow at the words, "Catfish, wanna go for a ride!" No smell. Dogs smell. It was a good smell. 

Two months. Sixty days. It should have ended by now. 

I said, it should have.