There was a funeral in Troy Fitzpatrick’s backyard a few afternoons ago. It was under a live oak. It was a well-attended service. Troy’s kids, were there. His wife, one neighbor boy.
Troy said a few words. Something to the tune of: “Dear Lord, we ask you to welcome Beau into heaven with open arms.”
Beau. He was a good boy. A rescue dog.
Eight years ago, Troy had just lost his job as a salesman for a window company.
“I was a mess,” he said. “So depressed, you know, I’s thinking: ‘What the hell are we gonna do?’”
So the Fitzpatricks did what any normal family does during moments of heartache. They went to the animal shelter.
“Must’ve played with a hundred dogs,” said Troy. “Didn't find just one, we found tons. And then we met Beau.”
The dog had already been named. It was the name that struck a chord with Troy. It was his late father’s name.
Beau was reddish with a gentle personality. He’d been born in the shelter, then adopted as a puppy.
Beau’s first owner left town
and took Beau with him. A year after, the shelter got a call from Nashville, Tennessee.
Someone had found Beau in the woods without a collar. The microchip under his skin led to the shelter where Beau was born. The shelter called Beau’s owner.
The man admitted to leaving Beau on the side of a country road—for dead.
A shelter volunteer drove seven hours to get the dog. He stayed in the shelter for one year after that.
Until Troy’s family visited.
Beau became a member of the family. He went to baseball and soccer games. He sat beside Troy during supper—and ate scraps. He slept in the kid’s bedroom. He played hard. He spent summers laying beneath an oak in the backyard.
Beau loved apples, fish, and snotty Kleenexes. He hated smoke.
“Whenever my wife cooked,”…