Nancy Wichmann

When I got home from work this evening, I found my best friend, perhaps my only true friend, lying dead at my front door. Since he was not yet cold or stiff, I can only surmise that he knew I was on the way home (I was delayed by several events) and used his last ounce of strength to let me know he loved me and was glad I was home.

To say I was devastated is a gross understatement. Somehow I drew enough strength to take care of his final details. The real sobbing didn't hit until I got back from arranging his cremation (I want his ashes buried with mine). Everywhere I look in this apartment, the memories flood back. Who knows how long it will take me to get over this loss.

In my life, I can say my five best friends have been Laura, Salty, Grunt, Donna, and Pamela. Of those now, only Donna remains, and in a way, because of her losing her brother, even she is somewhat lost to me.

We say "my friend" but you never own them; they are only on loan from God to help us in whatever need we have. Then they move on to their next task. Heaven is a happier place now with Salty; the Earth is a much poorer place now without him.

Salty was the only one who stuck by me through the loss of Laura, the loss of our home, my transition, the loss of my mother, and our move away from familiar places. Salty took all our moves in stride and wherever we were, that was his territory to be boss and protect.

He wasn't a pet - if anything, I was his. He was more than a family member (my only real one for the last seven years). I was his pack, not to be let from his sight, and if I did, to be greeted enthusiastically upon my return. Salty was a part of God.