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.


“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.

About me

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. :)