My dog died today.
He wasn’t so much my dog as my family’s dog, really. He was my grandfather’s dog, then my father’s dog, but he lived in our house and was happy to see me when I came home, and therefore he’s my dog, if only a little bit. I thought I was a cat person until Feller, but he was such an appealing little guy. He had such simple wants and needs.
He wanted to sit next to you. He wanted to follow you out into the field. He wanted to be a farm dog. He wanted some of what you were cooking, and he wanted to do his tricks for you, but he didn’t actually care that much about the treats that came after. He wanted you to put his leash on. He wanted the thunder to stop. He wanted you to call him a good dog.
That’s what’s so heartbreaking about dogs, I think. They want so little, and it’s impossible to explain why sometimes they can’t have it. You can’t make a dog understand why he can’t come up on the couch, or eat from the table, or any of those little rules. You can’t tell him why he has to get in the car, and why he can’t come home.
Goodbye, Feller. You were a good dog.