24 November 2015


     He was a street dog, foraging for food and running the neighborhood. He was shy and nobody could put a hand on him. He was sick, and getting sicker.
     When he collapsed in a nearby alley we collected him on an old sheet because he could no longer stand, a sure death sentence for a forager. He was emaciated and had no hair left; and he had open, oozing sores over his entire body. When we got to the vet's office people moved out of the way, more in disgust than pity; and the vet said he's very anemic and will probably die soon...
     I said I'd try, and I did. Later, when he was strong enough to be neutered the vet guessed his age at five.
     Ten years on and he'd still not quite got the hang of civilization. He really liked going for walks, although we know he missed running the neighborhood.  
     He really liked the company of the cats, far more than that of the other dog. He really liked dependable meals. He really liked fresh water, and soft beds that he could position to his liking. He really liked just being near his people. 
     And he loved being brushed although his skin, long-healed, was always tender.
     Last night he was buried in the garden next to a hydrangea and we hated leaving him in the cold.
     He's buried in our hearts forever.