Once upon a time, long ago and far away, my husband and I were trying (and failing) to have children, so we did the sensible thing: We got a dog. He was the world’s greatest dog right up until I ended up home on bedrest when I was pregnant, at which time he appointed himself Lord High Grand Defender Of Me and tried to kill anyone who came to the house, and tried to kill HIMSELF when we dared to leave him home alone (after I went back to work). He was… a little neurotic. He chewed through an air conditioner and got himself wedged halfway out one window and had to be rescued by our neighbors’ kids. He ate half a venetian blind. He tore up the kitchen floor. He tangled with a skunk and got sprayed in the MOUTH and had skunkbreath for a month. And once the kids were running around, he regularly “herded” them into walls.
He was a handful. But also very sweet.
When the ex and I separated, I couldn’t handle two kids and a mentally ill dog. I told him to take the dog, and he didn’t feel he could in his various living arrangements as he got settled, and I suggested he pass the dog along to someone in his family, and he accused me of never loving the dog, and discarding him as soon as he became difficult (much as I had our marriage, naturally), and it was a huge bone of contention and a very rough time. I felt incredibly guilty but also felt that the dog was also unhappy and needed a better home.
Eventually the dog was moved to a nice farm out in the country with a family member and another dog to play with and all was well and I was pleased that the dog was living a nice doggie life rather than spending most of his time here in his crate because I couldn’t convince him that the nice UPS man with the Zappos boxes is our friend.
This morning my ex called to tell me that the dog was killed, probably by a deer kick. They’re not sure. I am trying very hard to convince myself that whatever it was, it happened instantly and he didn’t suffer.
Notes to my ex:
1) I did love that stupid dog, you know.
2) Next time maybe you could wait until AFTER my nerve-wracking surgeon and mammogram appointments to share news like that.
I’m sorry, Huckleberry. I hope there are lots of tennis balls and squirrels where you are now.