No kid who reads makes it to middle school without boo-hooing through Old Yeller and Where the Red Fern Grows. And there are a million more boy-and-his-dog-who-eats-it-at-the-end stories out there. In fact, a few years ago, Gordon Korman published a young-adult novel called No More Dead Dogs, in which the main character laments having to do a book report on yet another tearjerker in which Ol’ Shep meets his maker.
I get that. It’s cliché.
But there’s something about it. The death of a dog. It’s a pain like no other I’ve felt.
I was having dinner Saturday night at my sister’s house. And when Wa’s computer goes to sleep, it scrolls through and displays the photos in the archives. A new, random picture every four seconds. Mostly they’re of chubby babies and birthday cakes, of course, but halfway through my turkey burger, I looked up to see
And it was so sharp in my throat just then.
I wish the quality were better, but this was one of the crappy pictures I took in the few months I had my Blackberry, before I decided I didn’t really want to pay for the data plan and gave it to Wa. Later, she saved the photos to her computer and emailed them to me.
I think it’s the first photographic evidence of myself I ever put on the blog. I was finally like, fuck all this semi-anonymous bullshit: you already know this is my dog, who died; well, here’s me—I’m the asshole who let it happen.
Anyway, when this pic popped up on my sister’s monitor, a sob welled up. My nephew was asking me to watch Spongebob Squarepants with him though, so I blinked and blinked and the tears crawled back into their ducts. But I’ve been thinking about that moment—when Boonie piled into my lap in the big blue chair at Nana’s—for four days now. I can feel the weight of his chest on my chest and his silky ear against my chin.
I just can’t believe I still miss him this much.
And I just cry.
I’m so sorry, Amy. I dread with all of my heart the day that Rogue is no longer here. I will not be able to function properly for a long time. A.very.long.time.
You have two very sweet pups who love you so much. I know of a crazy chocolate lab, with crazy gold eyes, and a big slobbery tongue who thinks you’re pretty swell too. She’s already looking forward to getting some more tummy rubs from you this weekend…. or butt rubs. She’ll take either.
I found your blog through XTCIAN. I graduated from Carolina in 1992 and enjoyed Wednesdays Child in the DTH, so years later I found Ian online and then I found you. I also work in education (alternative education), adore dogs, and can get super nerdy over things like grammer, so between college, work, pets, and an abnormal ability to discuss the proper use of an en-dash, these posts are right up my alley.
Today’s post made me cry. The background noise while I read it was my dear Foster snoring, and the very notion that there will come a day when he isn’t here for us to hug fills me with terror. He’s fine and healthy and jolly, but those sad thoughts are never far away. Thank you for sharing this special moment with us.
(((((HUGS))))) and love <3
Thanks, friends, and welcome, Lisa. I was roommates with Ian’s brother for four years in NYC. It sounds like you love your Snoring Foster Dog as much as I loved Boonie.
tears. love. sniff. hugh. love.
A pleasure to be here. And yes, I love Foster beyond measure.
Love. hugs. Love.
And quit being so hard on yourself- you didn’t let it happen and you’re the opposite of an asshole.
You’re a darling, loving, doting mother who let your babies do what they loved most- run!
And he would have been the last one to ever blame you or call you names, assuming you can understand puppy language (and I think you can).