Good dog gone

I came home from work Friday afternoon to find my meatball Zeke along the side of the road. Living on a farm, he would have been considered the very best of farm dogs except for one little flaw: his love for chasing milk trucks and stock trailers. And he apparently finally caught one. Fortunately he looked as if he was sleeping, just a little watery pink dripping from his nose. It was a rainy, grey day. My husband was lovely enough to rush home and get him off the shoulder of the road and into the corn crib.

So after my husband returned to work, I began the task of digging Zeke's grave next to Tuttle's, my husband's 11-year-old black lab who we had to put down in January. My back continues to ache, but not so much as my heart. I was sad with Tuttle, more because she was such a pain in my ass and knew it, that I regretted how cold I was to her. But with Zeke, he was my dawg! And he knew I loved him even when I was scolding him for weaseling his way up from the basement and onto the couch.

He was a meathead and I loved him and I'm just really sad. . .