My second pet lasted a week.
Again, in the hallowed halls of childhood, I thought -- like everyone -- I'd get a dog someday. After all, my neighbors had been using my grandmother's front yard as a dumping ground on a daily basis.
So I went on and on about getting a dog. I served whine with every meal. And twice on Sunday.
Finally, I got a dog.
My grandmother tied its leash to the
clothesline in the backyard so that pup and I could run back and
forth together. At one point, I fell. My pup (what was its name?)
playfully jumped on me. And scratched at my appropriately
named Squirt T-shirt.
My grandmother thought I was getting mauled.
About seven
days later, pup was gone. Unlike my fugitive duck Dudley, "pup"
had no bizarre explanation for its disappearance.
It was just...
...gone.
And that was my second experience with pets.
