I miss him, he was my only dog. I had him since I was three. Can you write some words about him for his funeral? His name was Tornado.
DEAR SEAN:
My dog died. We had to put him down last night because of cancer. We came home today and I actually expected to see him on my bed in my room, sleeping, and he wasn’t. I’ve never had any dog die before... I feel so sad I literally don’t even know what to do.
I miss him, he was my only dog. I had him since I was three. Can you write some words about him for his funeral? His name was Tornado.
FIFTEEN AND SAD
DEAR SAD:
Nothing I write is going to do Tornado justice. Because you didn’t lose a dog. You lost someone.
Once, I had a someone named Joe. He was a strange pup who slept in the bathtub. I’d hear his claws clink on the porcelain. Eleven years, he slept in that tub.
He was a good boy. He sat beside me when I ate, he sat beside me when I worked, he sat beside the shower when I bathed.
A greater dog I have never had.
His coat was thick. Pure black.
Ten inches deep. I groomed him in the summers with a pair of clippers and did a god-awful job. He’d have patches of skin showing, and a skinny tail that belonged on a rat.
“Poor Joe,” people would say when they saw him.
But Joe wasn’t worried about his appearance.
He camped with me. He fished with me. He loved tomatoes, hated corn chips. Chased squirrels; hid from sprinklers.
When I wrote my first novel, he laid on my feet. And when I would play Willie Nelson on the radio, he’d close his eyes and give me an open-mouthed smile.
He escaped from my backyard fence one day.
Someone found him on the side of the road. His legs were crushed. They did surgery. I went to see him. He wagged his tail when he saw me come into the…
"...He reached in his pocket and handed me his own knife. A Case knife. Old. Yellow handle. Double blade. "
Christmas afternoon. I drove my truck down a familiar gravel road. It's a road I can see in my sleep. I hadn't made that drive in many years.
I pulled over on a small bridge, flipped on my hazards. I crawled underneath the bridge. It was muddy. Creek water flooded my boots. I dug with a hand shovel.
This was ridiculous.
My childhood Christmases were simple. Each member of my family received three gifts—which was a rule of Daddy's. Growing up poor changes a man.
One gift was practical. Blue jeans, slacks, or, God forbid, underpants. The other two were fun.
One year I got an LP record,—“Stardust,” by Willie Nelson—a cap gun, and khakis.
Mama opened her gift. It was a booklet I'd made from colored paper, entitled: “Mama's Coupons.” Inside were various pencil-written discounts. “One free kitchen sweeping,” or, “Seventy-percent off hugs,” and my personal favorite, “Free ice cream supper.”
She never cashed in on the last one.
Daddy's gift was was a bathrobe. Mama made it. It was a sweet gesture. Except, of course,
my father didn't wear robes. He crawled out of bed fully dressed with boots on.
He slid it over his clothes, anyway.
Our gift-opening took ten minutes, tops. Then, I ate so much at lunch my feet swelled and my ears rang.
After lunch, Daddy asked if I wanted to go for a walk. I'd expected him to say that. Daddy couldn't sit still for more than a few blinks, not even on holidays.
So we walked. We followed the creek. The small water cut through through the woods. We marched through the undergrowth until we came to a concrete bridge.
We sat on the railing, legs dangling. I reached into my coat and handed him a wrapped box the size of a butter stick. The gift-tag, covered in my sloppy handwriting.
“To: Daddy,” it read.
He made a face. "What's this? Why'd…
And studies prove 2016 was the most homicidal year since Thomas Edison invented the drive-up ATM.
The honey bees are dead. They keep disappearing. Because of this, scientists predict one day mankind will no longer have peaches, tomatoes, magnolias, coffee, Home Depots, the NFL, the Atlantic Ocean, or mothers.
In other breaking news: the political candidates ate breakfast. Sorry. You probably expected something more exciting than that. But it's all we got.
More headlines: a wealthy athlete remained seated during the National Anthem. Mosquitoes continue to spread a virus which turns people into cream-cheese-colored puss. Toxic algae grows in Florida. Cellphones cause thumb numbness.
And studies prove 2016 was the most homicidal year since Thomas Edison invented the drive-up ATM.
Florida Fish and Wildlife developed new taxes on deer hunting. Deer hunters fight back by not giving a damn.
Coffee will kill you. So will smiling.
Apple unveils new iPhone—recent reports find older iPhones are unexplainably malfunctioning.
The presidential candidates ate pastrami for lunch—stay tuned for further updates.
Hurricane Hermine brews in Gulf of Mexico, threatening the slaughter of millions of babies and unadopted kittens. Evacuation rumors reverberate throughout Gulf Coast.
Weather Channel's
Jim Cantore tells ABC news affiliates, “I've seen a lot of freaky $#*@, man, I don't think the human race will survive this.”
Sports and health headlines:
SEC coach, Nick Saban, instructs Alabama players to stand for anthem unless they want the door to hit them where the Good Lord split them.
Also: gluten makes you live longer. Beer does too. Never mind. We're wrong. They both kill you. Wait. No, they extend lifespans. Scratch that. It's kale. Definitely kale. If you want to make it past forty-five, you'd better eat kale.
In other updates:
Teacher finds syringe in child's lunchbox. Child expelled from kindergarten due to zero-tolerance drug policies. Mother of kindergartener sues teacher for theft of six-thousand-dollar epi-pen.
Drinking water in lower Alabama infected with dangerous levels of politics.
In the continuing war on America's drug crisis, Congress outlaws Willie Nelson…
Sometimes I lay in bed and feel sad about such things. I guess I'm only human. I'm curious to know what it would be like to have something small need you.
Yeah, she's a bad dog. I know this much. There's no way anyone could miss it.
Once, in Oak Mountain State Park, she stole a pork tenderloin wrapped in bacon and toothpicks. She snatched it right off a camper's grill. I didn't even know she'd escaped until I saw a man running through the park with a spatula over his head.
He shouted something I won't repeat—my mother reads these things.
The campground security guard caught her, though I don't know how—I've chased this coonhound across state lines before. Once she was captured, he tried to locate her owner.
No luck. The real owner never came forward.
Ellie Mae spent one night in campground prison, where I understand security guards became hypnotized by her brown eyes. They fed her two Hardee's hamburgers, and marveled at how much she seemed to enjoy the taste of Budweiser.
The next morning: nobody had ever seen toothpicks exit a dog like that before.
And that's nothing.
Once, I left her in the truck while I
ran into Winn Dixie. I kept the AC running, and Willie Nelson playing. Inside, when I rounded the dairy aisle, I saw a familiar lump of black fur wandering down the frozen-food lane, carefree and light on her feet. I followed her all the way to the fresh produce, where I found her gnawing on a bottle of ketchup. It looked like a homicide.
The staff thought she was adorable.
Most people do. But she's not. She's trouble. I've seen her eat twenty-two jars of peanut butter, half a guitar, a laptop charger, and that was just lunch. For supper: a raincoat, a pair of underpants, and three bills. If there's a worse dog out there, I'm hard-pressed to believe it.
But right now, the terrorist coonhound sleeps beneath my feet as we speak. She snores bad. Her head is resting on my foot. She's warm. And I…
Jeremy— “Yeah, okay. My happiest moment. Let's see. Once, I watched the sun come up, sitting on top a three-story office building in Atlanta, that morning my wife had called to tell me she was pregnant. Almost passed out. Happiest moment of my life.”
Carter— "A happiest moment? Hmmm. Well, I always wanted to be in a band, but never got the chance. My daughter started playing music at church, couple years ago. They're guitar player bailed, so she told her friends, 'Hey, my dad plays.' I got to share my lifelong dream with my daughter. That was pretty cool.”
Greg—"Happiness to me is when my son and I go turkey hunting. He's a diabetic, it can make college kinda hard for him. But out there, he's just a normal guy. Last time, he killed a twenty-eight-pound gobbler. I was ecstatic.”
Rosalie—“Sure, I'll tell you a happy story. I was at a farmer's market buying stuff when we opened our restaurant, years ago. In back, I saw this guy with a baby pig and some chickens he was selling.
So I bought the pig. My mom was like, 'A pig? What're you gonna do with a pig?" Best pet I ever had. He's eight now.”
Darlene—“Well, after my dad got diagnosed with stage-four cancer, Mom rented a cabin in the mountains for a month. Our family stayed there, to be near him during treatment. We had so much fun. We rode four-wheelers, played games... Funny, how the worst part of your life can also be the happiest. I miss him.”
Me—What makes me happy? Stories. I'm not exactly sure how it happened, but stories have changed my life. I've made friends I never knew were out there.
In fact, on quests for decent stories, I've visited retirement homes, schools, kitchens, farms, trailer parks, small towns, churches, hospitals, beer joints, barbecue joints, and one Willie Nelson concert. I've met people stronger than I…
Barbecue. There will be a ton of that, with Jamie's own sauce, which is a three-generation-old secret. I'll miss that stuff. Eat your fill, then force yourself to eat more. That's what I'd do.
If you're reading this, I want you to attend my funeral — whenever that tragic day occurs. Please come. I'll pay your travel expenses. It won't hurt my wallet. Hell, I'll be dead.
I promise, it'll be a fan-damn-tastic beach party. Willie Nelson will be there, since he'll outlive us all. Oh sure, Willie charges a lot for this sort of thing, but my wife, Jamie, will work it all out.
Let's see, what else.
Ah yes, I want you to play baseball before the sun goes down. Let Jamie play first base, Willie can be catcher. Make my mother-in-law pitcher. Don't worry, she'll know how. She knows everything, just ask her.
Barbecue. There will be a ton of that, with Jamie's own sauce, which is a three-generation-old secret. I'll miss that stuff. Eat your fill, then force yourself to eat more. That's what I'd do.
At the proper time, I want you to lay me out on a pinelog raft, with
flowers. Not fancy ones, but wildflowers from the pastures of my childhood. I'll be wearing Daddy's wristwatch, covered in Mother's quilt. And I'll have my wife's wedding ring in my pocket; I intend on returning it when I see her again.
Then, push me into the surf and light me on fire. Willie can play "Mamas Don't Let Your Babies Grow Up To Be Cowboys," because as it turns out, I never did.
Afterward, resume eating and dancing like idiots. I want you to have so much damned fun you regret it come morning. Because on that day, life won't be about me anymore. In fact, it never was. It was about friends, baseball, dogs, music, fishing, and women who loved you enough to make barbecue sauce. I was just too self-absorbed to notice that.
Bring your own bottle.
That means you, Willie.
