The
past few days have been dreadfully godawful. Not dogawful which would be the
most delightful way for me to describe something that is godawful. No,
unfortunately dying is dreadfully godawful.
Mom
and Dad are about to take me to the vet’s office and I can just tell that
something is up. They are acting very suspicious for a routine car ride and
after that last visit, Mom lost it on the way home. She turned around to talk
to me and after a quick look into my sweet, puppy eyes, the waterworks began. It
was like a post-apocalyptic science fiction film from the mid-90s starring Kevin
Costner up in there. Mom started bawling then Dad started bawling then pretty
soon before I even knew what was happening I started bawling too (you know how
dogs whimper except it’s usually because they are hungry but I’m a wee more
advanced than the average mutt). Any car that drove by and saw all of us lost
in our emotions probably thought we were on our way home from the insane
asylum. We were more in our feelings than Drake. Mom can normally keep a
straight face too; she has defeated me and my buddies from the neighborhood in
Texas Hold’em several times. We even made a famous poster to commemorate the
momentous occasion.
How
messed up is it to know when your last day on the planet will be? The pain is
almost unbearable, though. It is bittersweet but my final trip to the vet will
undoubtedly finally offer me some much needed rest; for good, that is. Yeah,
life sure is a fickle fiend. One minute you’re sniffing another dog’s butt; the
next the universe is sniffing yours.
Dying
is a bitch and I’m not referring to myself when I describe it as such. I would
recommend not thinking about it too much. I did that pretty well for the first
few years of my life until something inside me just clicked. You might say I became
a born-again pup. Whoever said you can’t teach old dogs new tricks never met
me. Whoever said you can’t teach old dogs new tricks didn’t have a sense of
imagination. Whoever said you can’t teach old dogs new tricks can go fall
asleep in a well as far as I am concerned. I wouldn’t even rescue their sorry
butt, soaked by the humidity of that hole in the ground with an ego dampened by
despair.
I
used to love long walks on the beach, wow did I love those walks. Those were
some of the best times of my life out there chasing waves in the sand without a
care in the world. Dad would write my name in the sand then I would pee on it,
washing it away into the ether. Then we would do the whole thing all over again.
Wash, rinse, repeat. (Nobody says lather. I just ordered a brand new Tesla X
with a lather interior. Check out these lather cowboy boots. Did you pick up my
lather gimp mask from will-call at Spencer’s Gifts like I asked you to?) I
could probably set up camp and live out there on the beach. I would just set up
a little pup tent of course; why would I use any other kind of tent? That would
be absurd. Going to the beach was my favorite activity and the only thing I
ever wanted to do other than eat, sleep and sniff other dogs’ butts. Oh, the
sweet cocktail of Banana Boat, hot dogs and hot dogs, you know what I’m saying?
Give me some paws.
Buy Chris's books SPONGE CAKE & WHAT'S IN THE FRIDGE? on Amazon
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