[dropcap]W[/dropcap]e lost our Boone last night.
When I first met him, his name wasn’t Boone, his name was Squirt. He was a tiny pup, long and lean, with the prettiest coal-black collie fur I ever saw. On the night we brought him home, he pranced into our den, hopped on the couch, lifted his leg, and urinated a river on the sofa. The next day, we took him to my mother-in-law’s. Boonie galloped through the front door, into the den, walked in tight circles, squatted on his haunches, and whookied right on Jamie’s Mother’s rug.
After those first two accidents, Boone never messed the floor again. Not ever.
Last night Boone looked me in the eyes. He was the only dog I’ve ever had who looked me right in the eyes. I smiled at him, and held his fuzzy head in my arms, watching the light in his eyes fade away. They glassed over and became vacant, lazy looking. And then he was gone.
I cried as hard as I’ve ever cried.