My Dog

Today my dog would have been 11 years old. She died on a Wednesday morning two weeks ago. I never wanted a dog. I didn't want her. My now wife tried to talk me into buying a basset hound that day we got her. Never. "We should get a dog." No. "But that basset hound is so cute." Absolutely not, the only dog I might even think about getting would be that boxer puppy... "Well let's go see if they'll let us play with her."

I didn't know how to take care of a dog. Can't be so different from a cat. Just give them food and water, right? How do you get them to let you trim their nails? Why does she eat poop? Why don't places allow dogs? Who's going to take care of her when I have to go someplace? Is that a tick on her butt?

I learned the difference between fawn and brindle. She would eat my books. I taught her how to do some cool tricks. She would shake and hide under me when it thundered outside. She had a special way of talking to us. She slept at the foot of my bed. I'd get up in the middle of the night to walk her. I'd come home at lunch to walk her. I'd walk her in the morning and at night. She'd want to go for runs. One time she tried to attack a beggar that came to the door. Good dog.

She started getting older. She couldn't climb the stairs anymore so I'd carry her up sometimes. She couldn't walk very well and would slip on the floor so I got her a rug to stand on. After she lost control of her legs I was building her a wheel chair.

She was sick, but I thought she was getting better. I came home to check on her at lunch. I found her laying under my desk, head resting on my old briefcase. I wrapped her in a blanket and put her in our car. We drove her to the family farm to bury her near the edge of the timber and drove home with an empty car.