Here

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.

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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. :)