6 December 2015
Photographs, Fur and Stories
A while before we came to Mexico I took the Hammer to the vet. Winter is hard on old animals. Know that first hand now I do.
Vet checked her out careful like. It had been months since he had discovered my dog was not made of the stuff that lets you live forever.
"First off," he began, "I can't believe she is alive."
She was supposed to croak months ago.
"Sonja is worried about her," I told him. "We don't want her suffering, you know?"
"As long as she's as friendly as she still is, hungry as she still is and not hiding away in a corner like she knows she is going to die, don't fret about her. She's doing amazing. She'll tell you when she is ready to go or maybe you'll just come home from the fucking mill one day and she'll be gone."
Like a lot of people around here my vet put time in a sawmill when he was a young man. We do not all get good jobs and a farm to fuck around in when we get older.
When we get back to Canada we are going cook up a 15 pound turkey and carve up the best bits for her dog bowl.
There will be some sadness some time next year and then all I am going to have left of the Hammer is photographs, her fur mingled with the fur of my previous dogs Strangler and Ranger on my records and the stories in this motherfucking blog.
Hope you liked reading them as much as I have like writing them. It has been a good ten years.