I'm in my office. It's quiet.
No yipping. No little puppy snores. No snarly, yelping squabbles. No sleepy grunts or moans.
The rug has been shampooed. It smells like flowers in here. I hate flowers.
Later tonight I won't come in here, open up the floodgates, and sit on the floor and be inundated with puppies pouncing on me, trying to lick my beard, breathing their intoxicating little puppy breath air all over me, wandering off to pee in one corner while another puppy poos under my chair or desk while yet another clamps down on my phone line and renders it useless.
No Ty to take out and throw a ball for. No Ophelia to scold when she sinks her razor sharp puppy teeth into the fleshy part of my thumb (sorry, Ortizzle, but she really is); no Romeo to belly-scratch, or Othello to laugh at, or Antony to tickle behind his ears ...
They're all in their new homes. Some of them will whine tonight, yelp, call out for their mom or their bothers and sisters, wondering why they're all alone with these nice people. I hope the nice people will understand just why the puppy is crying, and not be too harsh and dismissive.
I'm OK, though. Really. Or I will be, soon. Maybe two more drinks.