Look out the window. Make a cup of tea and some toast. But then not eat them. Change the sheets on the bed. Forget what day it is. Stumble into a corner of the floor and hold your knees tightly. Pull yourself together. Make another cup of tea and this time drink it. Look out a different window. Stare at that spot on the floor where your dog used to stretch out, languid and happy, his paws twitching as he raced across sleep meadows and into dream ravines filled with moss and ferns and the scent of foxes. Look for the Kleenex. Use toilet paper instead. Wander around the house, your heart like a damned anvil in your chest. Heat up leftovers. Push them around the plate before leaving the entire thing in the sink. Look for what is not there. Feel the forgotten fur beneath your fingertips. Feel the forgetting begin.