Schubert, the un-evil spawn of a now unfashionable puppy mill, neared his demise. A Boston terrier and a product of Pharaoh-like inbreeding, his days were numbered from the start.
His hips were displaced.
His tongue untowardly wry.
His demeanor difficult, demanding. (Much like a Greek Ptolemaic dynastic.)
Schubert’s healthcare cost a fortune. When he was a playful puppy–the expense of castration and tail cutting were but minor outlays; Procedures in his best interest. Then, he had a full, advantaged life ahead as my esthetically-pleasing fashion statement and devoted companion—years of unconditional puppy love.
Long before me, his kidneys failed. His cancers spread. His movements slowed.
Now, as I considered the exorbitant cost of canine orthopedics, dialysis, chemotherapy, I pondered issues of life and death.
For all of us in this mortal coil, the end is certain–only the date is unknown. Schubert’s time had come. He passed peacefully as his devoted master held him.
Would I see my dog in heaven?
I consulted Ouija boards, psychics, card readers, astrologers, and a guy in Vegas who talks to the dead. I always asked “Will I see my beloved Schubert in Heaven?” The answer was always “no”.Flummoxed, I asked “Is Shubert in Heaven?’ Unequivocally, the answer: “Of course, he was good in this life.”
Oh Hell, I wish Schubert had been a wicked dog. It’s gonna be lonely navigating that lake of fire without him.
A boy and his dog should never part.
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