I’m sitting here in office just after having read something that reminded me very painfully of the very first dog that i could call my own. Max. All the other dogs that i’ve had before were family dogs, shared by my parents and my brother. They never were MY dog. A couple of years ago my wife walked in through the front door cradling a little black bundle that looked terrified and also pissed off. Soon he had taken control not only of the house but also of my heart. He could piss me off to the max, and then turn right around and act so sweet no one could ever dream of scolding him. He was the happiest little dog i had ever seen. Even when he was seriously ill and on saline and antibiotics for days at a stretch, he always had a wag in his tail and a smile on his face for everyone, even the doctors at the vet’s.
The way things worked out I wasn’t around for him when he needed me the most and I know it probably puzzled and hurt him as to why I had walked out the door and never come back. But, brave little puppy that he was, he gave and gave of everything his little heart could. Until one day i got a call saying his heart had finally given up. I guess even the biggest hearts have their limits.
I cried as I wrapped him in garbage bags for lack of anything else and put him in a cold hole i had dug in the ground. Alone in the dark, which he hated so much. I wished so much that i could have patted his head just one more time and seen his eyes close in joy instead of death.
I still feel sad. I still feel guilty. He was the first dog that I truly thought of as mine, and i miss him.