When I was young I knew true camaraderie. Loneliness was an alien concept, and fun was the only word I had more definitions for than the dictionary. My mind invented the games we played with no exhaustion, and the exhilaration of winning was dampened by the love we felt for each other. Our purity and sanctity was unblemished and untouched by the months that passed, and the arguments that made no sense to anyone but us. It was bliss, and we lived it together. However, one day, time moved at a pace normally reserved for the elderly with much to regret. Upon reaching my front porch, he laid limp in my father’s arms, and his eyes locked with mine, and I felt his pain as if it was my own. He was sick, and my request for medicine was met with silence. My eyes were averted and shielded as my friend was carried into the back yard. There was a whimper and a yelp of acceptance as my father took his life. No longer hindered, my friend made his way past the blackberry patch without a single thorn in his paw.