Friday, August 5, 2011
My mother's dog Buster got run over by a truck a few days ago. He ran out into the gravel farm road to chase an Amish buggy, and a truck sped up to pass the buggy and hit him. Then kept going. So if you are that person, who just left a dog in the road, you are the worst kind of asshole, I hope you know that. I hope you are still thinking about what a dick you are. If you believe in God, you should know my mother does too, and right now she's got more points with him.
Buster was a dog's dog. He chased deer and horses and goats. He killed things that came into his yard. He hated doorbells. And he loved Mom so much. I hate that she's all alone out on the farm now, and that there isn't much I can do to make her feel better. I want to go out immediately and get her another puppy, but I know you're not supposed to do that. She'll pick out another dog when she's ready. I'll miss him too. We were just starting to love each other, me and Buster. I have a scar above my knee from when he first arrived, all scared and knee jerk. The last time I saw him, he was happily running around the woods, and just wanted to be pet and scratched and then run off again. He was the best sort of animal I would want guarding my mother.
Any way, so that happened. Poor Mom. Poor Buster. It was quick. I tried to tell her it was like a wolf dying during a hunt, when you're a hunting animal, you don't die of old age usually. And so we'll say he died the sort of death an honorable dog might wish for, the quick confrontational warrior kind. A dog's death.
Posted by Bridget Callahan at 10:59 AM