I saw one of my FB friends is having to have thier dog put down tomorrow, which sucks big time. That reminded me of a story I wrote about a similar situation I had with my Buddy Torge for an English Comp class a few years back. This story is an example of Compare and Contrast if I remember correctly. I got an A+. Pardon the formating/paragraphs and spacing, FB didnt format correctly. The Super Friends By Daniel Loofe II August 28, 2011 On a hot August day I had to carry my best friend into the doctor’s office, place him upon a cold stainless steel table, and hold his weak trembling paw, as he quietly slipped away from this earth. My friend, Torge arrived on Christmas day 1998. He was ten pounds of snow white fur that within a few months grew to a 110 pound abominable snowman, full of energy and mischief, much like me. As a boy growing up in a small Nebraska town, I would be up at the crack of dawn ready for whatever the day had to offer. My Saturdays always started with a bowl of cereal and cartoons. I would typically put too much cereal in my bowl so that when I poured the milk, inevitably, many of those Os would escape and find their way onto the kitchen counter for my mother to clean up later. In the same way, as a pup, my dog would leave presents lying around the house for me to clean. Like me in my younger years, Torge, was always ready to run and play at a moment’s notice. After an hour or two of Scooby Do and the Superfriends, I would be out the door of our modest home, and on my way to the baseball diamond or playground. Riding my bike, (which was a patchwork of three or four other bikes I had scavenged over the years) was my freedom. It was a simpler time when a kid could spend a whole day exploring without an amber alert going off. With my ball glove hanging off my handlebars and a Joe Namath football card attached to the spokes to make a motorcycle sound, I was on top of the world. The wind in my face on those cool summer mornings before the sun hit its peak was the best. Torge felt the same way, when I took him on rides in the car with his head out the window, slobber dripping down the side of my freshly waxed corvette. We were free. As my friend and I got older, our interests changed from cartoons, to girls, and friends. I had to find ways of getting out of the house. Torge also wanted to run free and devised many ways of escaping our back yard. He broke log chains; dug three foot deep holes; and could climb a six- foot fence with ease. One of the dozens of times in which I had to bail him out of doggie jail, the animal control officer told me that they picked him up inside the Hy-Vee Deli. He always could be found where the people were, as could I. For me, I always told my mom I was going to my friends house across town, but was more likely to be found at the local school grounds. Our school was K-12, so it was a kind of facebook of the times where everyone hung out. I would show up with my basketball and inevitably, after a few minutes, my friends would start to arrive. As we shot baskets, we would brainstorm on what we could do that day. Some days we would go swim in the local creek, to the consternation of my mother. Some days we felt like Lewis and Clark and would wander the hills surrounding our small town looking for arrow heads or trouble, whichever we found first. If we got hungry, we would find an apple tree, wild grapes, or cherries to fill our young stomachs. Torge was also a practiced scavenger finding snacks in the garbage or litter box while I slept. At the end of the day you could tell where I had been by the ring I left on the bathtub. Torge, too, always had to be hosed off upon his return from his walkabouts. Loyalty is a quality that can only be proven by actions. Even if he got a swat on the behind the night before, I would always awake to see my friend lying on the floor next to my bed, waiting for me to get up. His chin resting on his outstretched paws, like a furry, Egyptian sphinx. I like to think that I am as loyal as he was, or strive to be anyway. In the end, when my old friend had stopped eating for a few days, I took him to the vet. After doing some blood tests and exam the doctor informed me that he couldn’t find anything wrong with my friend and it was probably just his time. After all, he was thirteen years old. Wanting to be as loyal to him as he was to me all of his life I took him home. The doctor had told me that You can’t make a dog eat, if they don’t want to. I had to try. I painstakingly blended a mix of food, vitamins and medicine into a smoothie and fed him with a syringe. For the next two weeks he gradually got weaker and weaker, despite my best efforts. I still couldn’t give up on him though. I woke up early; came home at lunch; and spent all my nights with him trying to nurse him back. Those last three days, I had to carry him outside and help him stand to relieve himself. Even though he could hardly move, still, there he was laying at the foot of my bed when I awoke every morning. In the end, I had to let him go. It was just his time. As I struggled to lift and carry my best friend into the brightly lit exam room and set him gently on the table, he showed no fear or apprehension. He looked at me and gave me a lick, then rest his chin on his paws, like I had seen him do every morning for the past thirteen years. I knew he knew what was next and he knew I was with him to the end.
Posted on: Tue, 06 Jan 2015 16:58:17 +0000
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