Poochy

When I was 18 years old I met my best friend.
I had just moved in with my new-found genetic mother and was on a reflective melancholy drive when I happened by the Ottawa Humane Society - the equivalent to the SPCA here in the west. I decided that I might go in and inquire after walking a dog. When I went inside, I was informed that dog-walking was only done at certain times and that I would have to go through a lengthy registration process to get on the list. I forewent that, but asked if I could just go in and visit the condemned. The room was a caged cacophony: a wall-to-wall prison for unwanted puppies who all were making a desperate plea for freedom and life. My heart sunk into its normal misanthropy and I steeled against the sadness and injustice before me. I turned towards the door and vowed never to come back when something unexpected caught my eye. A single cage, at eye level, which seemed empty, had a noticeable cardboard label on the front. "My name is 'Star' because of the white star on my chest. I am the runt of a litter of eleven and I have been very sick. I have already been in a foster home but I was too sick to stay. I probably won't live very long so I am not up for adoption." I peered inside and this tiny, cowering little black lab shelty mix was shivering alone at the back of the cage. Unlike the other puppies, this little dog was silent and serene - as though it knew the end was nigh, waiting for the inevitable. I unlocked the cage to reach in and pet him but didn't need to. No sooner was it open, but the little dog shakily wobbled towards me, crawled right up my arms and fell fast asleep nuzzled into my neck. I walked out to the front desk and told them I was taking this dog.
"I'm sorry sir, but that dog is not available. You see, the cost is still $125.00 no matter what dog you take. This dog won't live for more than a couple of weeks. I can't sell it to you in good conscience."
I laughed at the inhumanity (ironic word) of a person hired to care for animals but realized that his heart had probably steeled long ago to the tragedy he faces every day and that he was just being pragmatic. I threw $125 cash on to the counter - a sum I really couldn't afford which my mother graciously paid me back as an Easter present - and said, "Here's for your good conscience. If he lives two weeks, that's about $62 bucks a week. Money well spent for his life," and I walked out.

Eleven years later, Poochy died in my arms on New Year's Eve millennium having lived a healthy and happy life. Advanced liver cancer took hold and brought him down in only five short months. There was nothing I could have done. I know this because my beloved sister worked as a veterinarian's assistant at the time and she graciously paid for a full autopsy and cremation. His urn still resides on my mantle.
Actually, he died on December 30, 1999 in the morning, but when I tell it I always say New Year's Eve millennium. Although off by a day, it adds a certain necessary romance to the story. I held him close to his last breath.
If there is any sort of heaven in the afterlife, both of which I doubt, I will likely be unwelcome - and want no part of it anyway. The christians can have it. But Poochy will surely be there, and I have my conversation with St. Peter well planned.
"Just give me the dog and I'll leave in peace. You'll know him because he'll be kept close company by an angry looking cat a'goes by the name of Vernon."
And since my life on earth has seen enough to leave no threat of suffering to be afeard in hell, my dog and our cat will quite happily spend the hereafter exploring the Elysium fields of a purgatory that is all the heaven I desire.
"Keep your eternal wings - whether fiery leather or heavenly feather, I want for neither. Just give me the dog."

See you in hell,
Shakes.