He was so old—seventeen. Westies live for an average of thirteen-to-fifteen years, so he stuck it out for an extra two. He was half blind, fully deaf, had asthma, warts, cysts, lumps, and bumps. His eye had a growth on it and would weep. It had to be cleaned every hour, or it would get really gross. He had two strokes. The first one, we thought he was just throwing up loads and got freaked out about it. The second time, my parents weren’t home, so I had to help him out alone. I was useless. Sorry, little dude.
We named him after a Harrison Ford character. I can’t say which one because I don’t think I’m ready. But it’s pretty obvious. I didn’t cry when my parents told me it was happening. My dad said I’ve always been a bit emotionally constipated. I still haven’t cried. Towards the end, he started to get really discombobulated. He’d forget where he was all the time, and in the middle of the night, he’d walk around aimlessly for hours. I’d get so annoyed cause it would keep me up, and I’d have work in the morning. I haven’t really slept. Guess it wasn’t your fault in the end, little guy.
I picked him up when I was seven with my mum and sister. He peed on the dashboard cause he was scared. I expected him to pee on the vet’s table too; he always hated the vet, like most dogs do. He didn’t pee, though. Just let out a sigh.
I’m twenty-four now. Statistically, I’ve got at least sixty years left before I throw in the towel. My little soul on four legs, I don’t know how I’ll make it these sixty (?) years without you.
Take care of yourself till I make it. I’ll find the courage to cry about it soon. But for now, this note will have to do.
I love you, little man, with all that’s left of my soul.
Madelin Gonzalez Franco has been an avid writer since she was able to pick up a pen. A recent graduate from University with a degree in Creative Writing and Screenwriting, she spends her time drumming up ideas for her next script, excited for what the future holds.
Featured image by Tina Sara on Unsplash.
