And sometimes, Life becomes a dog. Much loved, much lived, much cherished. And just too much loyal. You show it the door with a warm hug in acknowledgement of the much you have shared in togetherness. You shut the door and turn back only to realize it is still out there, in perfect silence staring back at you with glassy eyes, wagging the little tail out there as a remnant of being in silent stubborn refusal to leave. You walk off and it follows you with random antics and funny sounds. You deny it all recognition, only to realize it hardly cares for your wish. You ignore its presence waiting for it to eventually leave and disappear it does for a while, only to fetch memories you had hidden long time back as a sort of casual existential sport.

It's no use trying to explain exactly how much is enough. It's no use verbalizing to it the cliff that separates the pastness of subjectivity from the presentness of alienation.

 Dogs do not understand tense; neither does Life.