Tuesday, October 24, 2006
His Name Was Little John
. . . and sometimes I can still feel his head growing strangely heavy against my chest as he took his last breath. It's been one year ago today since I killed my best friend...again. The first time was fourteen years ago. Little John was a replacement puppy who slept at my feet, had a fetish for pacifiers, and liked to yodel. I refused to let him die alone, so I held his little head as the doctor put the needle in his leg and promised me there'd be no pain. He lied. It still hurts.