Blacky Departs

Blacky passed away sometime yesterday night. He was 13 years old. So I thought it was okay. Though, I had expected him to drag on for another 2 to 3 years. Then mum told me that it was an accident, that they had picked him up from the road. That since Blacky was going blind and deaf, he must not have noticed. I agreed.

And then I saw him. It was NOT dignified. His tongue was sticking out in a silly way he never would have done in real life and some of his inside stuff was outside.

And it gets to me. I could have let it pass if it was somebody else, some other dog. But for Blacky and all the tremendous pains he took in carrying himself around like an aristocrat, no. If this is death’s idea of humor, I cannot appreciate it.

This is the one sore point. Sorer than the fact that I kicked him off the veranda yesterday and that, that was his last memory of me. He had recently wagged his tail a couple of times at me while I fed him evening biscuits. Wagging after what? 10 years? I had observed him carefully for a while and then asked, “what the hell are you wagging your tail at me for?” Oh, well.

I am putting a recent pic of his here. He was no stud, but he damned sure thought he was. Pats.