In Chicago today beautiful outside. It’s still a little chilly, but it’s sunny, people are out having fun, playing, living life and… Some are walking their dogs.
I just threw a little fit. Days like this are hard for me. I’m writing this with tears in my eyes because I don’t know who to turn to, talk to, or where I can vent. So I turned to my blog.
The thing is, Mr Poop, my best buddy probably ever, was put down by yours truly a couple years back. I wrote about it in the article “Try Not to Bite me Mr Poop” which was me trying to figure out what to do. I took him in one day, took him to McDonald’s and gave him a couple cheeseburgers. He ate them excitedly without knowing that would be his last meal. I took him to the place where they put dogs down in Chicago, the Anti-Cruelty Society. Funny name for a place that will allow you to take your dog there and have him put to death for free.
But Poop was either Senile of fucked up because he was blind and scared and angry because of it. I tried for months to deal with it. I went through 3 bites from him, hard bites. It was SO fucking hard because he had moments where he was his sweet, old self, and other moments where, out of the blue, he would get pissed off, start growling, and he would lunge or bite or snap.
I’m a barbarian motherfucker. Let’s face it. You hurt me, I hurt back. And I was getting scared because I would get so fucking mean to him back I would literally beat the piss out of him. Literally. I fucking scared the shit out of myself a few times thinking I was going to kill him.
I didn’t want to kill him, but I was going to kill him if I didn’t kill him. What kind of fucking bullshit life choice is that? This was my best friend ever. He was sweet, old, scared and I was the one who was supposed to protect him. I was the one who was supposed to give him love and make him feel safe.
But I betrayed him.
I killed him anyway.
I watched the life drain out of him right in front of me. This was my “protection” that I gave to that innocent fucking angel of a dog.
And to make matters worse I tried to work my ass off to make ends meet for the last 2 or 3 years of his life. What did that do? I worked for that MOTHERFUCKING STUPID Real Estate piece of shit job, and my Poor fucking Mr Poop was locked up in my fucking studio apartment during the summer months when I should have been there, walking him outside, doing fun things with him, giving him love.
But all I did was work work work work work, and left that poor little guy alone most of the time in his last days. What the fuck is wrong with me? Fuck work. Fuck that shit! I can’t go back and do it all over again and it tortures me. I fucked up and I can’t fix it.
So right now, I see someone walking their dog and I feel sad as fuck. Now he’s gone and all I want is another chance.
If you are reading this, and you have a dog, and you treat him like shit. . . You neglect him. FUCK YOU you piece of shit. That dog has a life, has feelings, needs fucking love. It’s relying on YOU to provide that.
Thank God, I was always able to feed him. That’s once consolation, I tell myself. Another is that at least he had a decent place to stay. But who wants to be alone all the fucking time? I just want to hug him again.
God I’ve dealt with so much fucking death in my life. 3 Dogs I loved dearly, walking into my father’s house one morning to find him purple faced and dead in his bed, death, death, death fucking everywhere.
I am RELYING on a heaven. I am RELYING that there is an afterlife and I am RELYING that I can see my loved ones again and hold them and hug them and tell them I’m sorry I was a fucking piece of shit and wasn’t there for them when they needed me. That’s if, of course, I rate and make it in there.
Meanwhile I don’t know what to do. I feel sad inside sometimes when I think about all this stuff. The father who Died 3 days after he had a business deal that he worked on for a couple years, the one that was going to set him up for retirement, fell through.
What did I do? I should have stayed there with him but I had a particularly bitchy girlfriend at the time, and she wanted me to go hang out with her and her shitty friends for Valentines day.
I did that. I went with her. And the last time I spoke to my father was through Nextel where he was drunk, asked me to come home and get him some food. I told him I loved him and I would see him tomorrow.
I did see him tomorrow – he was dead.
And then when I was 14 or 15 and I let my Dog Belvedere outside to go to the bathroom. I was listening to Beastie Boys loud on the stereo, and I kept calling my dog after a few minutes, but he wasn’t coming back. He had a tendency to be an alpha motherfucker and would go on long walkabouts. I think he was gone for 2 weeks once, and finally we found him all beat up, but walking tall with a female dog following him.
But this time, when I thought he was maybe doing the same thing, he actually has slipped into our in-ground pool. I was the only one home. I didn’t hear him. But imagine when I went outside looking for him and calling for him and I just so happened to glance in the pool and see him floating there. I pulled him out as fast as I could. He wasn’t breathing.
I called 911 and asked them how I could get him breathing again. Frantic and in tears I didn’t believe he was dead. I couldn’t believe it.
And there was Poor Socrates. I think he lived a long life. I wont get into the specifics but also, I watched him die right in front of me and that’s another situation I blame myself for.
Ok no, fuck it. You can think I’m horrible because I do. He was pissing all over. I got mad and wanted to punish him because he was supposed to know better.
I beat him with a phone book. I didn’t think it was that hard. But all of a sudden a couple minutes later he started walking funny, his back legs seemed to stop working, and he died. So ya. That was me. I think I killed him, maybe gave him a heart attack.
My dad was still alive at the time. He was in the room when it happened. Said it wasn’t my fault.
Bullshit. It was my fault. I gave the poor guy a heart attack and killed him. Maybe he was peeing because he was already feeling sick, you know, like losing control of his bodily functions.
Christ, I would ask for forgiveness but how can I ask when I can’t even forgive myself.
My dad and my dogs. I blame myself for all of them being dead. In every case I should have been better. I should have been there to rescue Belvedere. I can imagine him waiting for me to pull him out of the pool like we would when he jumped in when we were swimming. And I failed him.
My dad, all alone during one of the most crushing defeats of his career. Instead of being there for him I left him all alone. Mr Poop, same thing – no wonder he went senile.
I try to tell myself things like, “At least I was there for my dad during his last days. At least the last words I said to him were, “I love you.”
At least Mr Poop, for the most part, had a pretty awesome life. He was with my dad on LONG car rides every day until my father passed away, where they would go to the lake, go to the waterfall near our home, go for walks, he was spoiled. And even when I had him we went to Key West, did long walks there, lived in Ferndale – ya, you know what? I could have been better, but I didn’t totally neglect him.
Most of the time I would come home and the FIRST thing I would do is grab him, slam him on the bed playfully (he loved it) and rub his belly, hug him, kiss him, squish his face. Even in Chicago I would at least get him out when I could. He had plenty of sunlight in the studio apartment, and I think he was old enough where he may not have cared as much that he slept alot. However, that’s no excuse. I should have been there alot more for him.
Belvedere lived the life of a badass, but it was cut short. He got laid, he kicked other dogs asses, he played with us, and had a lot of fun. But again, I let him down in the worst way possible.
Socrates. He had a good life too, I think he was just spoiled. He was chill and relaxed and lived a good life, riding in a Model T at parades with my dad, long car rides, etc… But dammit he didn’t deserve to go the way he did.
I dug his grave. I buried him. I sat next to his grave and cried and cried and cried.
How many graves? How many deaths? How many times does my heart have to break and be filled with guilt that I failed?
So today I vent. Mr Poop’s end was not a happy one. On this blog one of the most popular articles was about Mr Poop.
Today, I was reminded of him a couple times.
And now… Sometimes I just hope I live a good enough life to see them all again.
- Try Not To Bite Me Mr Poop (librachronicles.wordpress.com)