| Biographical Non-Fiction posted July 14, 2022 |
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Unlucky
Lucky
by Wendy G
My Pet Contest Winner
I received a puppy for my twelfth birthday, a gorgeous bundle of black and brown fluffy action. This was by far the most exciting present I had ever received. I had always wanted a puppy. I called my beautiful one "Lucky" – I was so lucky to have him. He was a wonderful friend; he enjoyed tugging on ropes, playing with sticks, and I was trying to teach him to retrieve a ball. All the things puppies love to do.
One day before school I was playing with him on the back porch when he suddenly looked at me strangely and took a couple of steps backward – and fell down the steps to the concrete path. I was horrified.
I flew down the steps to him. He was foaming at the mouth. My parents reassured me that they would take him to the vet, and sent me off to school, despite my protests.
After school, I raced home as quickly as I could. Where was he? Where was my Lucky? Where was his rug? Where was his bowl?
My parents told me that the vet had said he had distemper. He was still too young to have had his vaccinations against distemper. There was no chance of recovery, so the vet had put him to sleep.
What a euphemism! Why had they not picked me up from school and taken me with them? I had not said good-bye, and I had not been with him to offer my comfort and love.
His rug and bowl? They had disposed of them so I wouldn't be upset at seeing them.
How could I not be upset? Of course I was upset. I grieved in private. My parents didn't understand; I hadn't had him for very long – I couldn't be that attached, surely. Crying wasn't very acceptable in my home, but my heart was shattered.
He died on Tuesday March 13th, only eleven weeks old. Such a short life. It was a date I have never forgotten.
This year as I reflected on his short life, I had a sudden awareness. Why had I never thought of this before? I knew, with a sudden deep sense of conviction, my puppy had not been taken to the vet.
We could not have afforded the fees for a vet, and certainly not the expense of having a pet euthanized. I think my father killed him. Choking? Hit with a rock? I don't know.
Perhaps Lucky's brain injury from the fall was too severe for recovery; I realise now he was probably suffering from an epileptic seizure. Perhaps he would have died a slower and more painful death – I don't know.
But this year I wept for him, and for the fact that I wasn't with him. Tears still come when I think about him dying a cruel and lonely death. Sometimes grief is a long and difficult process.
I received a puppy for my twelfth birthday, a gorgeous bundle of black and brown fluffy action. This was by far the most exciting present I had ever received. I had always wanted a puppy. I called my beautiful one "Lucky" – I was so lucky to have him. He was a wonderful friend; he enjoyed tugging on ropes, playing with sticks, and I was trying to teach him to retrieve a ball. All the things puppies love to do.
One day before school I was playing with him on the back porch when he suddenly looked at me strangely and took a couple of steps backward – and fell down the steps to the concrete path. I was horrified.
I flew down the steps to him. He was foaming at the mouth. My parents reassured me that they would take him to the vet, and sent me off to school, despite my protests.
After school, I raced home as quickly as I could. Where was he? Where was my Lucky? Where was his rug? Where was his bowl?
My parents told me that the vet had said he had distemper. He was still too young to have had his vaccinations against distemper. There was no chance of recovery, so the vet had put him to sleep.
What a euphemism! Why had they not picked me up from school and taken me with them? I had not said good-bye, and I had not been with him to offer my comfort and love.
His rug and bowl? They had disposed of them so I wouldn't be upset at seeing them.
How could I not be upset? Of course I was upset. I grieved in private. My parents didn't understand; I hadn't had him for very long – I couldn't be that attached, surely. Crying wasn't very acceptable in my home, but my heart was shattered.
He died on Tuesday March 13th, only eleven weeks old. Such a short life. It was a date I have never forgotten.
This year as I reflected on his short life, I had a sudden awareness. Why had I never thought of this before? I knew, with a sudden deep sense of conviction, my puppy had not been taken to the vet.
We could not have afforded the fees for a vet, and certainly not the expense of having a pet euthanized. I think my father killed him. Choking? Hit with a rock? I don't know.
Perhaps Lucky's brain injury from the fall was too severe for recovery; I realise now he was probably suffering from an epileptic seizure. Perhaps he would have died a slower and more painful death – I don't know.
But this year I wept for him, and for the fact that I wasn't with him. Tears still come when I think about him dying a cruel and lonely death. Sometimes grief is a long and difficult process.
One day before school I was playing with him on the back porch when he suddenly looked at me strangely and took a couple of steps backward – and fell down the steps to the concrete path. I was horrified.
I flew down the steps to him. He was foaming at the mouth. My parents reassured me that they would take him to the vet, and sent me off to school, despite my protests.
After school, I raced home as quickly as I could. Where was he? Where was my Lucky? Where was his rug? Where was his bowl?
My parents told me that the vet had said he had distemper. He was still too young to have had his vaccinations against distemper. There was no chance of recovery, so the vet had put him to sleep.
What a euphemism! Why had they not picked me up from school and taken me with them? I had not said good-bye, and I had not been with him to offer my comfort and love.
His rug and bowl? They had disposed of them so I wouldn't be upset at seeing them.
How could I not be upset? Of course I was upset. I grieved in private. My parents didn't understand; I hadn't had him for very long – I couldn't be that attached, surely. Crying wasn't very acceptable in my home, but my heart was shattered.
He died on Tuesday March 13th, only eleven weeks old. Such a short life. It was a date I have never forgotten.
This year as I reflected on his short life, I had a sudden awareness. Why had I never thought of this before? I knew, with a sudden deep sense of conviction, my puppy had not been taken to the vet.
We could not have afforded the fees for a vet, and certainly not the expense of having a pet euthanized. I think my father killed him. Choking? Hit with a rock? I don't know.
Perhaps Lucky's brain injury from the fall was too severe for recovery; I realise now he was probably suffering from an epileptic seizure. Perhaps he would have died a slower and more painful death – I don't know.
But this year I wept for him, and for the fact that I wasn't with him. Tears still come when I think about him dying a cruel and lonely death. Sometimes grief is a long and difficult process.
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