Ars Memorandi Mori

When I was thirteen, I came home from jr high to an oddity. There, in my backyard, was a small animal. I did not know who's black creature this was, but it frockled around and, upon seeing me, galloped at high velocity right into my shins. This is how me and my dog met.

The following years were tumultuous. I was young, and had no idea how to raise a dog, let alone accept the responsibility for another life. I got as far as the dog's name, and that was it. The family would always exclaim, "She's your dog! You (put her out/feed her/take care of her, etc.)" But, as life continued, I moved away from the dog.

I would visit every so often. She was always glad to see me, which happens to be characteristic of dogs. She would wag her tail and pant, exposing her unique black spot on her tongue. She was oblivious to the world around her, only focused on what was in front of her face. She learned to mole hunt. She constantly tried to eat a basketball. She would sleep on my bed. For all these things, I shall miss her dearly.

We put her down today. She had a tumor growing in her mouth that was removed once already, but it was persistent. She could not walk very well, and would often trip up the stairs. It was time, though I hate to see her go. For literally half my life, she's been around, and now she's gone.

It reminds me of my first encounter with death. My first dog died when I was nine, and I didn't fully understand what that meant. All I knew was that the dog was buried in the backyard, in the forest, and an object of my love went underground. As I grew, I found myself visiting that sacred place often, thinking about what it meant to die. Now, the first dog grave is accompanied by a second, and there will be no more dogs for some time.

I miss her. I told that dogs things I've never told any human being, and she knew my secrets. To God with you, Addie.