I remember bringing you home. You were so small and
cuddly with your tiny paws and soft fur.
You bounced around the room with eyes flashing and
ears flopping. Once in a while, you'd let out a little yelp just to let me know
this was your territory.
Making a mess of the house and chewing on everything
in sight became a passion, and when I scolded you, you just put your head down
and looked up at me with those innocent eyes, as if to say, "I'm sorry,
but I'll do it again as soon as you're not watching."
As you got older, you protected me by looking out the
window and barking at everyone who walked by.
When I had a tough day at work, you would be waiting
for me with your tail wagging just to say, "Welcome home. I missed you.
"You never had a bad day, and I could always count on you to be there for
me.
When I sat down to read the paper and watch TV, you
would hop on my lap, looking for attention. You never asked for anything more
than for me to pat your head so you could go to sleep with your head over my
leg.
As you got older, you moved around more slowly. Then,
one day, old age finally took its toll, and you couldn't stand on those wobbly
legs anymore. I knelt down and patted you lying there, trying to make you young
again. You just looked up at me as if to say you were old and tired and that
after all these years of not asking for anything, you had to ask me for one
last favor.
With tears in my eyes, I drove you one last time to
the vet. One last time, you were lying next to me.
For some strange reason, you were able to stand up in
the animal hospital, perhaps it was your sense of pride.
As the vet led you away, you stopped for an instant,
turned your head and looked at me as if to say, "Thank you for taking care
of me.”
I thought, "No ... thank you for taking care of
me."
(Charles
B. Wells Jr., Palmyra, N.Y.)
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