It was cold when I went outside this morning.
Our dog’s stainless steel water bowl was one big ice cube.
I emptied the solid block of ice onto the crisp, frosty grass.
Never again would I be throwing away his unused water.
I picked up my well-worn key and opened the shed.
Reaching inside, I grabbed a hose and a broom.
Then I started the heartbreaking task of filling in the four large holes that our dog had dug for himself in our yard.
He wouldn’t be using them anymore, and I didn’t want anyone to step into them and accidentally get hurt.
He must have dug his holes with great passion and flung his dirt far and wide as I couldn’t find nearly enough dirt to completely fill any of those four holes.
Now I have to go out and bring home some new soil in order to erase all traces of him in our yard.
I didn’t even want him here.
He was Constance’s dog from the very beginning.
For the longest time, he simply tolerated me, unless he was afraid and he wanted me to protect him.
As he got older and sicker, he still wanted me to protect him, but it also seemed that he had finally figured out that I wasn’t a bad guy.
Without my even realizing it at the time, that furry bastard had weaseled his way into my heart.
I don’t want to go out and get another dog in order to erase the pain that I now feel.
I hurt, and I don’t want to go through this again.
I want this to be my very last batch of dog chores.