Pet Sitting

I'm house/pet sitting for the 4th time this summer. This time, it's an old, beautiful, and slightly needy dalmation named Molly.
I don't have anything to write about, but I recently read this on my brother's (Andy) blog and I thought it was endearing:

Not too many days ago, I was ruminating with my sisters how I thought the family dog might be immortal. They started calling him White Friday in his 80th year; White because he was getting white hairs and Friday because Friday is the last day of the school week, and the best day as well. I thought he would be completely white in a few more years, a wise old Silver Retriever. He was dubbed "RJs Golden Sambo," but we who were his friends called him "Golden Bear," or "Stupid," or "Sam." Sam passed from this world last night during a basketball game.

Although I wasn't at home to see, I imagine it much like I remember sister Rachel in 6th grade when she was upset and started to cry and mom brushed the hair out of her face and tucked it behind her ears and patted her back and said "Shhh, it's okay sweet-heart" and her tears dropped on the inside of her glasses. I think he saw my father sideways and felt like this.

This dog was from 5th grade. He is the dog who purchased human things with a beanie-baby pig. He would like to sit on Josey to wipe his butt-hole, or scoot on the ground to achieve the same purpose. Back on Minter Lane, we would fill his igloo with hose-water during July and swim around in it while he scratched on the storm door in jealous anxiety. Dad would stand and toss peanut-M&Ms to make him jump, then take him on night-walks around the green valley. Mother liked to sit and coo affirmations to him in a sweet-voice; stroke his ears and say "you are a handsome boy, yes you are." I liked to sneak up on him very slowly so his tail would thump. Rachel would brush his stinky fur while he was shedding. And how he waited for us, and chased us, and how he liked everyone he saw. How we dressed him up in bathrobes and pearls, teased at his ladyfinger, fed him bagel-bites. Sam was a good dog. He may have been the best dog....

Tonight I paced around the living room with a peanut-butter sandwich in my hand. There is an emptiness where this dog should be, the opposite of the dog. An upside-down dog sleeping in the shower. A dog not pooping in the back yard. A dog dad can't find to hook a pink leash to. A blank space mom can't tell to shoo out of the kitchen, something Rachel can't dress in Guns-N-Roses t-shirts. It's like sitting down to play songbook tunes at a missing piano.

And who is this I spy,
from the corner of my eye ,
hiding out in the bushes,
eating blueberry pie?

Is it Santa?
Is it Moses?
Is it the Lord of the Flies?
Who is this guy?
Who is this neat guy?