Back around the beginning of summer, I mentioned Franklin to you all. I explained how he was my next-door neighbor’s corgi, and how the knowledge of his presence made my heart feel like someone had poured hot cocoa into my chest cavity. I wrote:
He’s got the waggle. He’s got the smile. And he’s mostly black and white, with brown cheeks, giving him the not-your-everyday-corgi look the people love.
Franklin growls at strangers, but only until they pet him. He is very good at playing with a tennis ball. One time I saw his person outside grilling, and when he went inside for a minute, Franklin (who had been running happy laps around the pool with his little corgi legs) raced to the door, not leaving until his person returned thirty seconds later.
I never became friends with Franklin’s person. I made a few efforts, but none very significant. Now, that person has moved out, and he’s taken Franklin with him.
I miss Franklin. I miss knowing he’s over there. I miss hearing him add his voice to the voices of all the dogs barking at each other through the walls and doors because sometimes they do that when their people aren’t home and it’s hilarious. I miss seeing him trotting along on the sidewalk in the morning, perfectly unleashed and at pace with his person.
The new neighbor seems fine. My only encounters with them so far have come via the sound and vibration of the repetitive bass noises they sometimes play at a moderate volume during the late afternoon hours (unfortunately, they don’t seem to have the Joe Kelly Playoff Anthem on any playlists). I haven’t seen them in person, or talked to them, or accidentally gotten their mail yet (I never got Franklin’s mail either but I bet he got the best mail—ideally some magazine about tennis balls and being all cute and happy and stuff).
I do know how to get to Franklin’s Instagram account, so I can look him up when my heart is particularly forlorn. I don’t want to follow him, though, because his account isn’t all that well-followed, and I think I may have already creeped out his person by excitedly asking about Franklin every time I saw him and saying “that’s Franklin’s apartment” whenever I walked past with a visitor.
Hopefully Franklin’s happy wherever he is (and I’m guessing he is, because he’s a dog). Hopefully his new landlords don’t send out passive-aggressive emails about keeping dogs on leashes as though Franklin is anything but a blessing to all who cross his unleashed path. Hopefully he can swim in the pool, if that’s what his little doggy heart desires.
Hopefully he doesn’t miss me as much as I miss him.
