He was handsome. Distinguished nose, nice hair, good legs. Kind eyes. He had a wonderful disposition; patient, tolerant, playful. He spent his youth with the girl he fell in love with, and loved her still even when she was no longer there to greet him every day. I imagine as he grew old, he dreamed of days gone past, when he was young and hale and full of vigor. He stiffened up a bit as he got older, it was hard to get up some days. Now time was spent dozing, enjoying his meals, spending each day as if it was his last. Eventually, it was.
I never met him. I have pictures. Stories about him. I know somewhat about his life, and about his death. I wasn't there when he was brought home for the first time, nor was I there when he took his last breath. He was part of other people's lives for a long time, his family, and he left a mark in their heart. He left a mark in my heart too. His name was Murphy, and I never met him.