AJRMAN
My Dog
Today is July 2nd. I'm a little bit depressed. Four years ago I put my dog to sleep. I sometimes think I shouldn't feel these feelings over a dog, but I do.
The year I didn't speak to my Father, he took me to the dentist. On the way there we always passed the Humane Society. On this trip I just stared at the place as we drove by. Turning my head as we passed. On the way back home, he asked me if I wanted a dog. Smart man, my father. To answer him, I would have to speak to him. I said "Yes".
I still remember the first time I saw my dog Blackie. When I approached the kennel he was in, all the puppies swarmed the fence. Licking my hand, whining, trying to get my attention. In the back, curled up in a ball was the dog I wanted. The fact that he didn't TRY to win me, made me want him even more.
I met my sister Stacy at the school bus stop. When she got off the bus we walked home together. Trailing us was Blackie. I told her I didn't know who's dog he was. When he entered our house, she knew the truth. She wanted to call him "Peanut", like that was ever going to happen. She agreed to "Blackie" because that was John Stamos' character on General Hospital.
When I was a teenager, Blackie was my friend. He was MY dog. If my sisters were petting him, I would slightly gesture with my finger, he would come over to me and put his head underneath my hand. My sisters would get so mad at his loyalty to me. I loved it.
My Mother pretended to dislike him, because he ruined her backyard. For his first birthday, I bought him a bed. When he put his paw in it, it moved, which scared him. Which in turn meant he would never sleep in it. He ended up digging a hole in the backyard, and sleeping in that. My Mother everyday, would fill in the hole, only to find it dug up again the next morning. My Mother finally gave up, and let him have it.
When I grew into an adult, my time was spent with new friends. I neglected him. Sometimes I wouldn't even open the shades to the patio. I could see him look at me through the blinds, hoping I would come out and play. But I wouldn't. I would wave at him, from inside the house, grab my jacket and leave. When I walked to my car I would hear him whimper, as if he was trying to call my name. I didn't care.
My early twenties was spent going to clubs and bars. I lived on my own at this point and rarely went home. My Mother took care of Blackie. When I would come to visit, I again would sit and wave at him through the blinds. Not caring. He would sit in the same spot outside. Eyes staring through the blinds with hope.
Whenever he did enter the house, he spent it by my side. Always mine. He was my dog. No one compared to me.
The first year I spent in Los Angeles, I received a call from my sister Janice. She said Blackie was very sick. She said he wasn't eating and had lost a lot of weight. I cried that night. I lay in bed curled up in a ball. Crying. Not for me, but for him. I always had thought " I'll play with him tomorrow". In his life, ' Tomorrow ' never came. I never played with him. I neglected him.
I went home the next day. When I entered the house, I went straight for the patio door. When I opened it, he came in. He wasn't the dog I knew. He WAS thin. When I ran my hand across his coat, I could feel his bones. I could see his bones. He entered the house and just laid on the carpet. I laid next to him, face to face. He stared at me. He moved closer to me. We just stared at each other. Tears running down my face. He was so old. White eyebrows, and whiskers. So old.
The next day I took him to the Vet. They were going to take some x-rays of him. He never liked the Vet. They would always have to drag him into the examining room. This time, he willingly went in. He stared back at me, with sad eyes. I went home and waited for the call.
Three hours later, they did call back. Blackie had tumors throughout his body. The Vet suggested I put him to sleep.
When I reached the Vet's office, they took me to an examination room. On the table was Blackie on his side, breathing fast, tongue hanging out, and eyes glazed over. I told the Vet I wanted to be here, when he went to "Sleep". They injected him. I stared into his eyes, hoping he knew I was here. He wasn't alone. I stroked his fur, trying to comfort him. His breathing stopped. I hunched over in pain, and covered my mouth. Tears ran down my face. He's dead.
The nurse said they would give me some time alone with him. She told me to tell him I loved him. I felt like telling her to shut the fuck up. Who is she to tell me what to say to my dog?
When they left, I stared into Blackie's eyes. He wasn't there. I stroked his head, and apologized to him. I wanted him to know he mattered. I wanted him to know he was loved. I wanted him to know he was a good dog. I wanted him to know that although he was my dog, I was HIS boy. He knew me well.
July 2nd my dog died. I spent the remainder of the day, filling in the hole he used to sleep in. Throwing away his toys, and dog food. The only thing I kept was his collar. The one with his name on it. Four years later, he still affects me. I remember laying my head on his side. I remember him trying to sit in my lap, even though he was way too big to. I remember his face of despair as little kids would hug him. I remember sitting on the beach with my arm around him, watching the waves come in. I remember him. I remember you Blackie.