Dingo Dog, RIP.

   Well, he's gone. Figure he lost his pulse a few hours ago. Laying there, out in the sun. Gasping. Tongue sticking out. Couldn't seem to take the water I was offering him.

 

  Choices? Put a shotgun to his head. Make a noise that would scare my other Dogs. Make a fucking god awful mess that would be there for ever.

 

  Drag him off to a vet's? Saturday. Local, " We don't come out for Dogs, Any day! " shit house is shut.

 

   Arrange a taxi to the 'Emergency' place? Next county away? He wouldn't have lasted that trip.

 

  Nope. Just left him there, for nature to take its course. Which it did. It's been obviously coming for months now.

 

  But, each night, he's wanted his grub. I've given it. He's ate it. Anywhere between two or five cans. I've gladly fed him as much as he'd eat.

 

  Cans. Lately, " Chum ". He seemed to prefer soft, tinned meat to raw lamb. He got offered both. Ate both, in part. Up till last night. Ate it then.

 

  One less for dinner, tonight. He's in the wheel barrow. Down in the stables. Pat's coming, Monday, to dig the hole I'm simply no longer physically capable of digging.

 

  Oh! I can sweep up the saw dust though. Last year or two, le Ding had taken to ~ when ever the feeling came upon him ~ drinking a bit much water. Then honking it up on the floor here.

 

  Mopping up water / slime from a concrete floor gets old. I reverted to what my Dad showed me. Gave this place over to a kennel. Strewed saw dust everywhere. Easier.

 

  And now, he's gone. Shit will move forward around here. Balzac will, Tonight, become the Room Dog. Faaark!

 

  Tomorrow, I'll likely have to remind myself that it's Him, stretched out, or curled up on my futon. Not Dinger. Ding's gone. Fuck.

 

  le Ding always slept on the foot. On top of the quilt. Funny Dog. Never once was able to convince him to sneak inside and join the pile of who ever else was snuggling there.

 

  That's enough. I've got to figure out the new feeding regimen now. Ding always ate his grub in the kitchen. Balzac in his cage. Sausage on the futon.

 

  Tonight, what? I don't know. And I've got to figure it.

 

  " Valentino " ~ Kev? Thank you, mate. I kept my fucking promise. I swore to ye, I'd give Dingo Dog the best fucking life he could hope for.

 

  Twelve? Thirteen years old? That Dog never, in my presence, knew a cold, hungry, lonely day. Never had a fucking hand raised against him. Barely a day he wasn't actually told he was loved.

 

Still is. But, it's dinner time now. For the ones left. And how the Fuck am I going to work this new feeding regimen out?

 

  I never thought of This. Shit!

 

  Miss ye, Ding! Now, finally, the fucking tears!