TW — just trust me on this.
I’ve debated all day writing this. But I process through words and writing, so here it is. And this is a breakthrough in getting what I need.
I was walking Pete first thing this morning as I always do. My hair is still wet from the shower, the early morning humidity bringing out the sweat just a little bit.
In all honesty, I was getting a little frustrated with Pete. He could not find a place to relieve himself to save our lives. I swear, I’ll never understand what goes into a dog’s head when he’s looking for a place to relieve himself. Why one place doesn’t work, but three feet to your left works like a champ.
My building is right next to a Taco Bell. And his usual place of relief is a small area of grass right next to the Taco Bell parking lot.
I look off about 200 feet in the distance and I see a man in his 60s carrying a small, white dog. I didn’t think much of it, many owners of small, fluffy dogs will do that. Seeing as though my dog has never been small and fluffy, this is something I’ll never understand.
As this gentleman got closer, I noticed that the dog seemed completely lifeless. And this poor man had a shell shocked look on his face.
The gentleman looks down and sees that Pete just deposited his load. Pete sniffs his pile…as he does. Dogs can be disgusting sometimes.
“Don’t eat it, bud.” The guy says to me.
I have to admit, I wasn’t watching Pete. I couldn’t get my eyes off that dog. I couldn’t figure out what was going on with it. And the human…
Until it hit me. My God, that poor dog is dead.
It got even more disturbing when he opened the door to my building, and headed right up the elevator.
As I ate breakfast and headed to work, I couldn’t get this feeling out. This wasn’t my dog. I mean, I felt awful for the guy, seeing his dog more than likely get hit by a car could rank as one of the worst days of anyone’s life. But this did a total and complete number on me.
As my day moved forward, I realized that it was my inner child crying for a hug. And in many cases, literally crying.
When I was growing up, our family had this ancient dog named Cotton. Cotton was adopted by my Mom and Dad before I was even born. I think she made it until she was 17 years old.
But she was in really bad shape for the final few years of her life. I believe that Mom let her hang on longer than she should have.
I remember the day of the fateful trip to the vet for Cotton, Dad had her wrapped up in a white blanket. I saw him lower the tailgate of his truck, and I see her lying in the back of the truck. Dad leaves to get a shovel and to gather my sister Ivy and my Mom. I’m left outside alone.
Keep in mind, I’m about 12 when this went down.
I took a peek inside the blanket, and I saw Cotton’s body. Lifeless. Dead.
That trip to the vet is the one thing I dread the most about being a dog parent. But more than likely, I know it’s coming.
To my friends and family I shared this news with, I thank you for your space, patience, and love. I hate sharing this kind of stuff with anyone, but I really needed a hug. My inner little boy needed a hug.
My condolences to my new friend.
And my condolences to my inner little boy for losing Cotton some 33 years ago.
