It's been five years since I lost my beloved beagle Rocky. In his memory, I'd like to repost a little something I wrote about him after my family and I were forced to put him to sleep:
Written June 6, 2007
On Monday morning, I got up, I showered, I clipped my fingernails, I ate a blueberry fruit pie, and then I paid a man to kill my dog.
It was all legal and everything. A veterinarian with a white table and a syringe. All very humane and professional. But that's really what it boils down to, isn't it? I took out a hit on my beloved beagle for 74 dollars. Oh, and I'd like to put that on my credit card, please.
His name was Rocky. A name I wasn't incredibly fond of, but he started out as my nephew's dog, so the choice was entirely out of my hands. As the years passed, though, the name conjured fewer Stallonian images as the dog made it his own. Besides, the name was easy to play with — Rock, Rock-o, 30 Rock, Rock-a-doodle-doo. Though I usually just called him Stinky Dog. ... Continued