The woodchuck has eaten one row of chard in the garden, leaving stalks jagged and torn. The deer have nibbled the tops of the day lilies, just as they were ready to bloom. A raccoon has knocked over the metal trash can and rolled it into the yard, an array of trash is now strewn in all directions.

Just last week we said a sad goodbye to Calley, our dog of twelve years. She was vigilant, if not overly so. Her bark was loud and insistent. What seemed like random outbursts at all times of day or night, often jangled our nerves. “Quiet, Calley!”we’d blurt out sternly, as if it made any difference. She had a job to do and took it seriously: protecting us.

Now I realize that her barking signaled the emergence of the woodchuck at twilight, creeping out from under the porch, brushing through the pachysandra and heading for the garden. As we slept, she heard the raccoon rattling the metal can and tipping it over at 1 a.m. She saw the shadowy deer glide along the edge of the woods, lowering their heads slightly to eat the lilies in the predawn light. Without our watchdog, the wild animals are more brazen now, moving closer to where we live.

There is so much I miss about my loyal companion, her eyes trained on my every move. Our early morning greetings were tender. I loved our daily walks. In her youth, she was the fastest dog around, delighting in the sheer speed of running across fields. That was long ago, lately, it pained me to watch as she limped along, determined to keep up.

I move ahead unencumbered now. I am lonely at times without her steadfast presence but I am also curious to see what emerges without a watchful dog at my side. The wild world comes closer. An owl flew by in a flash of white and perched on the crab apple tree outside my kitchen window the other day. As our eyes met, I was frozen with surprise and didn’t move until her large wings pulling her back toward the woods. In the new silence, sounds and creatures appear. I look more carefully into the shadows.