I’d gotten Hector when he was eight weeks, and had raised him since then.  It was him and me against the world.  I knew it and I think he did, too.  No one was going to tell me that he was just a dog.

Another friend I spoke with that morning mentioned that tone, those people.  He told me to take their names down and pass them to him; he’d personally kick their asses for me.

But it wasn’t there.  My boss knew how much Hector’s death was tearing at me.  A single day off was the least he could do.

I spent the rest of the morning in bed, lying in sheets that smelled of him, bore his dark hairs.  I cried some, more than I ever thought I could; more than I ever thought I should.

I hadn’t really slept the night before, so I tried to pull the covers over my head, tried to find some piece of sleep that wouldn’t confront me with his battered, bloodied body.

And succeeded.


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. :)