Freddie Fred Freddie, you do really try and I truly appreciate that. It’s quite unfair to you, but I’m trying.
It’s not your fault that no dog could compete with the dog that came before you. He was awesome. You would have loved him, but not as much as I did. He was my best friend, ever.
He was so athletic and strong: he could jump up onto my saddle as I sat on my horse; he could bounce off my chest from a full sprint and leap into the air to catch a frisbee.
He defended me from a thief who broke into my office while I was working and held him in a corner until I called him off. He defended me against a stalker just after your human sister was born and I could barely walk. There are many adventurous stories I could share about him. He could have taught you so much. He was good to younger dogs.
It’s very unfair of me to compare your manners to his majestic ways. Or to expect you to stay by my heel without a leash, to never run away or after any animal ever. If he were sitting in my car with all the windows open and dogs walking by and he wouldn’t leave his “Stay”. You’re not quite there yet, little Freddie. But I’m trying.
I’m not really yelling so angrily at you when you chew through my seatbelt, get the steak off the counter, drag all bread outside to the backyard or chase the neighbors cat. It’s not that I’m so mad at you or expecting great things from you when I haven’t even taken the time to know or train you.
It’s not you. I just miss him so much. I expect you to be like him, to behave like him, behave like I’m used to my dog behaving. Immediately. Without the 24/7, 10 years without anybody else around to train you.
You don’t understand the expectant looks I give down the hallways because I still hear him coming. I still feel for him next to me, still wait for him around the corner, still expect him to be waiting in the car, at home or under my massage table.
Even after all these years… July 3rd, 2008, when he slipped running on a wooden floor to slide into a corner wall and broke his back. A freak accident, even for a geriatric dog of 15 and three quarters years old. It was my fault.
Thats why I won’t let you run in the house after your beloved ball, Fred, especially on slippery floors. It reminds me and scares me of the awful days that followed of trying to save him with steroids that made his stomach bleed from his mouth and anus. Sleeping with him on the floor and holding him in my arms as he couldn’t move except to lick me and raise his eyebrows and ears.
He had just gotten an A+ from the vet the week before: “He’s doing great! For a 15 year old Dog, you couldn’t tell it by looking at him. He is well loved. All he might need is some doggie aspirin if he seems sore.” That’s also why I don’t take you to the vet very often. I hate it there. They took him overnight to give him those steroids to “reduce the swelling in his spinal cord.” It back fired, badly.
I should have said no. I should have taken him to an acupuncturist or a doggie chiropractor. At least, I should have taken him home to just be quiet and together. The look in his eyes when he realized I was leaving that God Awful place without him… For the first time EVER, leaving him somewhere besides at home… Instead, what I chose made him suffer, not just to be paralyzed, but to bleed internally as well.
There was no “goodbye hike”, “farewell frisbee game”, or “hang your head out the window one last time.”
I miss him, Fred.
Why can’t some very mean people live only 15 years and the good pets live 80??
You are living now, Fred. Right here, by my feet, every day. Trying Soooo hard to be good. I know. I’m trying, little Freddie, to give you a chance. To let you learn and be the best you can be. You are so loving and playful. You love the kids and they love you. I love how you hide your toy and then find it, or how you throw your toy and chase it. You are a good dog and I love you.
My logical mind knows this and tries to notice you. But my heart is still breaking and I’m mad at you that it’s YOU here and NOT HIM.
But it’s time to accept you as you. I’m working on it.
Wanna go for a walk?