I remember the day it happened. I was sitting in the very spot I’m in now as I write this. We all knew the dog was in poor health, but we just kept on living merrily without the fact at the forefront of our minds that this day was inevitable. I even remember how, in her waning months, I would take the care to pick out the disgusting little clumps of dead hair and crust to which I can only imagine those who are in line for the elevator up to doggie Heaven are entitled.

As I sat in this room, Mom called for me. I ran into her bedroom to find Chelsey on the floor, convulsing like I had never seen before. Not many preteens are privy to the uncontrollable shaking of a canine seizure so early in their lives, I suppose. After writhing on the floor for a minute or so, she calmed down. And, in a last gasp of life, Chelsey moved her little peg legs because she thought she was running. Then, complete still.

You know how when you get on in age, what you did during the first fifteen or so years in your life become a giant blur and you can’t really put your finger on exact happenings of the distant past? Well, and this sticks out in my mind as clear as day, for some reason I remember the exact dialogue between me and my mother:

“Is it over?”

“I think so.”

Then, we cried. Mother because she had witnessed – and had her son witness – a depressing doggie death. Me because I knew nothing would ever come along as great as that dog.

Boy, was I wrong.

A short time later, we came driving home with a new golden retriever. I knew this one could never fill his predecessor’s paw socks, but the family was lonesome with no trouble making varmint around Peterson Manor. Again, was I ever wrong. Ben is, without a doubt, the sweetest and most loyal animal with which we may share our world.

As I sit here in this same room where I heard my mom’s call so many years ago, Ben lies at my feet. I know he may not be here forever, but I should enjoy what time I have with him and move on to the great things life has to offer me after his departure.

I realize that this entry is seemingly not in keeping with my overtly optimistic posting style, but the entire point is one of hope and goodness: While you may be disappointed and sure that the world will never be as good tomorrow as it is today, you are very likely wrong. Life has a funny way of working itself out.

Two observations, though.

One, why don’t human females go through this stage? I must say, it would make things far easier on me if all women just walked around, ladyparts exposed and all up in my grill, vocalizing how much they wish I’d do what I’ve wanted to do to them for years. It would take out all of the formalities of dating, and would likely be cheaper.

As for the second thought, come on, Cat. Give me a frigging break. I’ve wanted to have sex since before I came out of my mother. You’ve been with us on this green earth for five months. Try nineteen years, you ungrateful varmint. You don’t see me parading around like the world owes me intimacy, with my hind parts raised toward the sky while I moan and groan for hours on end while other people are trying to sleep, do you? Yeah, I didn’t think so.

So seriously, Cat, get a grip, take a chill pill, and do whatever it is all of those other idioms that mean “relax” tell you to do.

Before, Man’s Best Friend looked like this (nestled snugly in his chair with the cat):

Two trips to the vet and $80 later, however, my dog looks like a giant naked mole rat with an unusually hairy head:

Mind you, however, that I brought this cat, Lucky, home from preschool. That would make him 12. Sixty four in cat years. That’s old. And it’s showing.

Since about four years ago, Lucky’s had a very demanding nighttime schedule that, luckily, I am not responsible for maintaining. Each morning at about three, his high-pitched squeal that has devolved and can no longer be considered a meow rings throughout the house, waking my poor father, consistently and without fail. Then good ole Pop gets out of bed, letting the cat outside to do whatever cats do in the wee hours of the morning.

Then, I get up at five and ignore the mindless droning of feline desire so that I don’t have to deal with the morning feeding chores – particularly because I have no idea what to feed this thing. Enter my father, who’s been through the regiment morning after morning for years. My mother is very particular about her cat; she’s outlined a system concerning what food the cat eats at particular junctures that is more intricate and complex than most women. And, my friends, women are enigmas.

And so, upon allowing entrance to the most annoying animal God decided to put on this green earth, Dad has to feed it the food prescribed by the mandate of the matriarch of the household and wait until its next session of crying, whereupon someone lets the cat outside only to be forced to let it back inside again.

When everyone leaves the homestead to attend to their daily affairs, the cat sleeps the day away atop the back of our blue recliner, which is nice and peaceful. Until it has to poop. Then, it goes and squats in the same place every time. Every time. And I clean it up every time. Every time.

Unbeknownst to my mother, I’ve proposed that we kill the cat. However, by posting it here, the secret’s out. Therefore, I guess I can’t get away with it. On the other hand, it would be an absolute travesty Lucky accidentally disappeared. A real tearjerker, let me tell you.

I’m currently accepting bids on the job.