I don’t know when the Little Dog got old. I don’t remember when she stopped playing with toys and running through the house. When I think about her activities that her advancing age took away, it seemed like the loss was gradual, but the longer I think about it, the more I’m convinced that one day she walked 2 miles and the next she couldn’t climb the 2 steps into the back door. It didn’t happen like that, I’m sure but the time with dogs runs together in my mind. All the years, all the walks, all the squeaked toys, and all the crap she gobbled up off the sidewalk is a big blob pressing on my memory until I want to run away, down the street, faster and faster. I want to run like she used to in the green meadow at the dog park, a funny sideway trot with a broad smile. That’s when she was the happiest – with the Big Dog, running.
My God. I think my heart is breaking in two.
It was bad enough to lose the Big Dog, but now the Little One is gone too. God is an evil bitch for separating us, and I hope the Little Dog bites the shite out of God for this.