Death of Friends
The cocker spaniel I had when I was ten died of shampoo poisoning. I watched his poor, golden body twitch and groan as foam clung to the fur by his mouth. His eyes rolled back, and we all watched with a sickened horror.
It was ten at night and my father and his best friend were outside on our patio. Mr. Thompson, my dad’s friend, was smoking a pack of cigarettes. He didn’t look so funny anymore with his knee-high socks up his skinny chicken legs. He watched with us as our dog heaved his last breath. He butted out his cigarette and turned back to my horror-struck father.
Later, they blamed it on the maid. She did this, she made him die. Then, I felt angry, and disgusted that someone like her existed.
Ten years later, I realize that it wasn’t her. I was too young to take care of an animal. That dog should have never been adopted by someone like me, so unintelligent and immature. I close my eyes as I put Sparky’s picture, golden and fair, back in the box where he would be forgotten again.
We talk about getting a new animal for my mother. She’s alone in the house now. My dad and I wait at the red light for it to turn green.
I know that the subject of pets will ultimately lead to the subject of Sport, a Dalmatian we had brought home approximately ten to thirteen years ago. I am correct when he tells me that Sport passed away.
“Yes Dad,” I tell him. “You told me this before.” He continues to talk as if I hadn’t said anything. I eventually asked how he died even if I know already.
“That infection on his back, you remember that, right?”
“Yeah. Was it genetics or was it the weather or was it something he caught?”
“I don’t really know. Myra doesn’t really know.” Myra was Sport’s vet. I shake my head and I look away. We gave Myra the dog because we moved to the States, and she had taken him lovingly.
The last day at our house was sad. Sport came up to me as he wagged his tail and told him goodbye. I told him I would miss him. I didn’t hug him but he ran away from me before I finished what I was saying. I took it as a sign that it was all right.
I shake my head when I’m retold the story for what is the fifth time in the last six years. Dad doesn’t visit much, so it’s quite a lot. I take Sport’s death with a nod. It’s sad to hear about, but Sport wasn’t my dog anymore.
By the time the light turns green, I recall the certain tightness in my chest years ago, and for some reason it had dulled, and I feel it no more.
It pains me greatly to think about Missy. I am older now; I should not feel what I feel. Missy was MissyPrissy, Fatcat, Oldcat, ShutthehellupCat, Whinecat, and lastly, my bestest, longest, faithfulest childhood friend. I can’t put into words why my eyes water like they do. I do know, however, it’s too soon to write about her because emotion takes over, and rational, pensive thought is non-existent. Her death was more than a few months ago, but I think about her as if it was yesterday. I am older now, I should not be crying. I should not be tearful. Isn’t it when you’re older you can deal better? Then what’s happening to me now, who can’t seem to grasp this concept? I don’t understand why the mere thought of her makes my lip tremble. The death of a pet is a dear thing, I know this, people can relate, but I think by now it should be over and done with.
Missy was fifteen when she died. She was my cat at first, then our cat, and then my mother’s when I moved away. I should not be upset because she was no longer mine, that detachment had taken place and I had no reason to. Admittedly, though, it’s only in words, as my heart had never left her, but it should have.
I am older now, I should not be upset. I cannot control my emotions and I hate myself for it. I am the oldest I have ever been, but I know I’m still way too young. I miss my cat, my favorite friend. Let it stop, tell me to stop thinking. Let’s move on.
It was ten at night and my father and his best friend were outside on our patio. Mr. Thompson, my dad’s friend, was smoking a pack of cigarettes. He didn’t look so funny anymore with his knee-high socks up his skinny chicken legs. He watched with us as our dog heaved his last breath. He butted out his cigarette and turned back to my horror-struck father.
Later, they blamed it on the maid. She did this, she made him die. Then, I felt angry, and disgusted that someone like her existed.
Ten years later, I realize that it wasn’t her. I was too young to take care of an animal. That dog should have never been adopted by someone like me, so unintelligent and immature. I close my eyes as I put Sparky’s picture, golden and fair, back in the box where he would be forgotten again.
We talk about getting a new animal for my mother. She’s alone in the house now. My dad and I wait at the red light for it to turn green.
I know that the subject of pets will ultimately lead to the subject of Sport, a Dalmatian we had brought home approximately ten to thirteen years ago. I am correct when he tells me that Sport passed away.
“Yes Dad,” I tell him. “You told me this before.” He continues to talk as if I hadn’t said anything. I eventually asked how he died even if I know already.
“That infection on his back, you remember that, right?”
“Yeah. Was it genetics or was it the weather or was it something he caught?”
“I don’t really know. Myra doesn’t really know.” Myra was Sport’s vet. I shake my head and I look away. We gave Myra the dog because we moved to the States, and she had taken him lovingly.
The last day at our house was sad. Sport came up to me as he wagged his tail and told him goodbye. I told him I would miss him. I didn’t hug him but he ran away from me before I finished what I was saying. I took it as a sign that it was all right.
I shake my head when I’m retold the story for what is the fifth time in the last six years. Dad doesn’t visit much, so it’s quite a lot. I take Sport’s death with a nod. It’s sad to hear about, but Sport wasn’t my dog anymore.
By the time the light turns green, I recall the certain tightness in my chest years ago, and for some reason it had dulled, and I feel it no more.
It pains me greatly to think about Missy. I am older now; I should not feel what I feel. Missy was MissyPrissy, Fatcat, Oldcat, ShutthehellupCat, Whinecat, and lastly, my bestest, longest, faithfulest childhood friend. I can’t put into words why my eyes water like they do. I do know, however, it’s too soon to write about her because emotion takes over, and rational, pensive thought is non-existent. Her death was more than a few months ago, but I think about her as if it was yesterday. I am older now, I should not be crying. I should not be tearful. Isn’t it when you’re older you can deal better? Then what’s happening to me now, who can’t seem to grasp this concept? I don’t understand why the mere thought of her makes my lip tremble. The death of a pet is a dear thing, I know this, people can relate, but I think by now it should be over and done with.
Missy was fifteen when she died. She was my cat at first, then our cat, and then my mother’s when I moved away. I should not be upset because she was no longer mine, that detachment had taken place and I had no reason to. Admittedly, though, it’s only in words, as my heart had never left her, but it should have.
I am older now, I should not be upset. I cannot control my emotions and I hate myself for it. I am the oldest I have ever been, but I know I’m still way too young. I miss my cat, my favorite friend. Let it stop, tell me to stop thinking. Let’s move on.