"Half of what I say is meaningless, but I say it so that the other half may reach you" - K. Gibran
Monday, July 6, 2009
Beau was a mutt. A wonderfully dear and old mutt. He was the black Lassie. A mix of collie and black lab. His was coverred in soft black fur with a patch of white on his chest and a long fluffy tail.
As a baby they would lean me up against him and he didn't mind. Beau was easily my best friend. I used to climb the fence to the park just to see him do the same. He would chase me everywhere for little more than my interest in playing.
He was proud and never wanted me to know he had arthritis. He would act like a puppy when I had him outside, I think he was embarassed by his greying chin. He could catch any fly and was an expert at burying treasure. Mom always said he was a perfect gentleman. He wouldn't eat if he was being watched.
Everyday at hearing my bus from down the street he'd wait for me at the top of the stairs with his fluffy tail hitting the cupboard as it wagged. He never let me down. I knew he was ancient, but I knew him my whole life. I knew what pissed him off and what gave him absolute joy. Loyalty is your dog painfully walking over to you when all you did was look at him, love is when you hate yourself for putting him through the agony.
His last day Mom had to tell me and it hurt her, distraught I told her I hated her. She expected that, didn't even flinch. Looking back I can think of instances she could have lied to spare my feelings but told me the truth anyway. The day she had to put Beau down was one of them. She knew it would kill me, knew I would blame her, knew I would be inconsolable. She looked at me as I got to the top of the stairs where Beau should have been and with red eyes and a trembling voice she told me she had to. I never imagined I would ever forgive her even though I knew it wasn't her fault.
I still cry when I think of that dog but I sob when I think of how awful that day was for her. These are just shadows of my best friends when I was twelve.