If you cry easily over animal stories,
you may want to skip this post.
It is not funny
It is not inspirational
It is just me being really fucking sad.
Yesterday I put my beloved wolfhound companion-dog down.
To say that this was not fun is like saying that an exploding volcano is comfortably warm.
When we first took him in, back in 2003,
he was already a year and a half old,
and very much a skinny bundle of wild child energy.
He ran and ran and ran and ran.
Especially if rabbits were involved.
But mostly just to run.
He could be ridiculously cute for such an energetic, 80 lb furball.
He was very patient with me when I shaved him down for the summer.
And he was always willing to pose for a photo.
At one point we got him a puppy,
who promptly earned the name Shadow,
as in “Leo’s Shadow”.
Shadow’s grown up a bit since then.
Shadow has always been the clown of the household.
Leo was always the guardian,
watching out the window for any danger
while the rest of us napped peacefully.
Or simply by guarding the door with his body.
I miss him.
But Shadow tells me he’s ready to step up to the job,
and that we can all keep napping safely.
He insists that he retains the right
to be extremely silly, however.
And I think we’re all okay with that.
Thank you, Leo Dog, Gala-Leo,
Big Stinky Mutt, Lethal Gas Emitter, Wobbly Old Man,
Stubborn Fool, Crazy Barker,
and all the many other monikers you’ve acquired
over the years.
I am so very glad you were in my life
for as long as you were,
and I only wish I’d taken you on more walks
and let you run crazy wild in the woods
once in a while.
But you’re chasing rabbits without fences now,
and I hope they give you a damn good run.