Here

When sleep finally did come that night, it came late and more from emotional exhaustion than physical.  I listened to the rain pound the roof and worried about him getting wet.

And though I missed his back pressed against mine as it usually was when we slept, I kept his collar wound through my fingers through the night.

I didn’t sleep much at all, maybe just a little as dawn crept closer to the horizon.  But when I did, the only solace I received were images of his sweet face, but not calm and peaceful as he’d been when I’d held him.  No, now his face was distorted, his muzzle drawn back in a rictus from his teeth.  His eyes were wide and fixed, grey and cataractous.

And the blood…it had been only a thin trickle.  But now, in my dreams, it gushed from his nostrils, his ears, wept from his wide, accusing eyes.

I awoke shaking, nauseous, and rose to sit vacantly in front of the television, watching images of other people’s woes, other people’s losses.

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“Go ahead and take the day off,” my boss told me the next morning.  I was sensitive, still am, to that tone in people’s voices…you know the “It’s only a dog” tone that some people give you when you show the slightest inclination to grieve the loss of a pet.





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This is me: home-writer, book-reader, dog-lover and occasional poet. I make this website to share my and my friends texts with You, dear Reader. Please: read carefully, don't be scary, upgrade your mood and be king and leave your comment. :)