Of all the dogs that I had in my life, my favourite had always been Charon, the mastiff that I had when I was in my 30s, 50 or so years ago. He’d been a big, gentle, goofy dog, and I still missed him.

“Get off the bed, Charon,” I said weakly.

“It’s time, Bill. Time to go,” Charon replied.

I looked at him. “I’m ready.”

“You’ll need to pay the ferryman. You’ve got the fare. You’ll know it when you find it.”

I looked around the hospice room as best I could. I no longer had anything of value, except for my memories, beliefs, and dreams. I searched those.

The human life is one of peace and strife, laughter and heartache, learning and stupidity, balance and excess, giving and taking. We start our lives by taking. When we’re born, we take our first breath, accepting a gift that can never be fully repaid, that of an independent existence.

I gathered the remnants of my first breath. I had found what I needed.

“Let’s go, Charon.”

He barked happily, and led me toward the river, chasing frogs as he went.