Before Sam, I had never had a dog argue with me. We never knew the source of his grievance. Sometimes, I argued back, miming his outrage.
Sam was adopted at two by my son who treated him well. Perhaps his first two years were horrific, full of cats and scary city rats. He was eight when we took over his care, including two knee replacements
With time the arguments subsided, but he never lost the urge to comment. He always wanted something now, dammit. He could be alone in a room and still he groused.
He was aloof, but he and I cuddled when no one was looking. We were good to Sam.
The car seemed to come out of nowhere. Sam was hit and dragged. I thought he was going to be okay as he was standing when I got to him. But he wasn't. The vet offered options. It wasn't the cost, but likelihood of a painful life that made us pause. My son agreed via Trans-Pacific call to let Sam go.
The silence in our home is deafening.
No comments:
Post a Comment