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Dog Days Are Over
The grief of losing a pet.
In the dark of the night, there is a sound somewhere between the pitch of an anguished teething baby, and a wailing peacock being murdered. Every cry ends off with a mournful growl, deep in the powerful lungs of what must be some formidable Eldritch being. The terror grabs ahold of my soul, and a shiver runs down my spine.
It is my dog wailing, and she is in no form of pain or danger — she wants some attention, and a fat piece of salami.
Flash back to almost exactly 11 years ago. That April, I was bouncing on the edge of my seat in my junior high class. My grandparents’ dog was having puppies, and they told me I could assist after school. I believe it was my other set of grandparents who drove me there, and I remember looking on with hushed awe at the only surviving pup — so tiny next to her still minuscule mother. I was deep in the throes of dog-crazy pre-teen angst at the time, and I was known for carrying around my AKC book, being able to name any breed on the street, and knowing more dog facts than Wikipedia. I wanted a dog more than anything, but the chances were slim, and being around this one was the next best thing.
In a twist of incredible good fortune, this special pup was given to my family that summer when she was ready to be weaned. Despite the fact that my grandparents could…
