It's not the color of the center of the flame. Or the tip, as it flickers and then dissolves. A candle's flame, not a roaring bonfire. Almost like the sheen of brass. Close, but not quite. Warmer. Not that nearly artificial hue the trees blaze, briefly, in October. More like bronze fabric, with a little shimmer woven through. To throw off some light. (If he naps in the sun, imagine all this several shades warmer.) Not a color you can bring home in a box. Why bother getting it right? He's darker than our first, beloved golden. And younger, of course. And competing with our best memories: sprinting like a young deer after the herd; napping, chin in bowl, waiting for dinner; leaping out of the rowboat to join the swimmers; zooming in figure eights in the yard, delighted to see us. Like a young fox, this new dog is burnished as Buddha's belly. Right now, he curls on his bed in a tight ball, nose to tail, eyes shut. Resting up to break my heart.