My Dog Died.

When I was at a 4-H camp a few days ago called Discovery Days, my dog Grindle died. 

He died because all living things die, whether the inevitable sentence be prolonged or shortened. All things die--but it'd true that all things live. They live for a short amount of time at the least, and though it ends we will always remember them.

My mother miscarried a baby a few years back, and she's still trying to get over it. But the scar is still there, and will always be there.

I've lost three Labradors, and you'd think that each death would become easier to handle as time progresses (much like is the case with my rabbits) but there's still this gaping scar there, and each time something new occurs it's reopened and reopened and reopened, and then suddenly the scar never heals and all you're left with is a spot in your chest that always hurts.

And all because of a dog.

The truth is that most of the time I hated that big lump of yellow fur, taking up space and running away when the front door was left open. 

But he was always there, wanting another scratch behind the ears.

He was always there, wanting me to throw a toy for him to fetch.

And he was always there, when all I wanted to do was sit on the couch and pet him subconsciously while watching Once Upon a Time.

 

But all that I can think about is when I was walking in the front door to collect my contact case before going going to Discovery Days, I stopped and patted him on the head, and thought this might be the last time I ever see you.

And now he's just gone, like he never existed in the first place.

...

He was only a dog. But pain can be felt for the loss of anything, whether it be a favorite book or an animal who acted a bit too vicious towards strangers.

(As a footnote, Mom, I do not want you to ever bring this post up in random conversation with me. I'm going to start getting embarrassed or something and then we'll have to go watch The Avengers again.)