Charity took what my brother and I had assembled. And there were the moving boxes for our mother in assisted living that still needed attention. It was curious how my family – the four of us: my father, my mother, my brother and I – weren’t in the family scrapbooks that the two of us packed that day. Instead, smiling back at us were dogs, every dog our family owned from puppyhood to old age since 1972. Scrapbooks of dogs. And it seemed natural that our parents had tenderly compiled these albums. If there was any error, it would have been that there were not enough photos though no more could have filled the pages. With only two days to pack everything, my brother and I stood in the basement recalling anecdotes. On that cold spring day in March after devotion had patiently waited decades to be called by name, the past came running – bounding into the little basement, leaping through the condo, jumping upon bed pillows, prancing just out of reach. With dog hair flying and plush balls squeaking through the years, we finished our task of moving our mother. And not one dog was left behind.