His Name Was Jersey

My little boy died last week. By little boy I mean dog. By died I mean at the hands of the paid assassin I hired to take him down. I don’t know if it’s coming through but, I feel a lot of guilt.

How do these four-legged angels seep so deeply into our souls? Dogs are small brained mammals who have trust issues. Mostly they trust too much. There’s a reason some among the homeless population have dogs. Sleep with me on a bench at below freezing? If I can be with you, sign me up! replies the dog. Meanwhile the cat says I beg your f**king pardon but first of all I don’t DO cold and secondly, what’s in it for me?

My little boo went by the name of Devil Dog in my blog. It seemed fitting for all the shenanigans he pulled. A bottle of thyroid pills consumed one day, a case of toilet paper the next. And the incessant ball fetching. My god I would grumble—someone hide that ball I can’t take it anymore. Lately his little claws would click click click on the tile floor. He was not in his right mind, a little demented from old age and blindness. He would just get up and turn in large circles in the kitchen click click click. Find a spot! I would scream. Oh my god, stop clicking!!

Since last Wednesday when I sent him to his death, his little red ball sits atop a bookshelf with his worn collar draped across. And the house is deadly silent even when there is conversation and chaos around me. My god why didn’t I throw that little red ball every single time he asked? It was only for 13 years. I could’ve quit my job to throw that damn ball. My god what I would give to just once more hear the click click click of little Jersey’s claws.

His name was Jersey. And he was exceptional.