This is what The Husband said last night; “Oh, I forgot to tell you, Vicky died.“
This is what I said; “WHAT?!” and “How could you forget to tell me? When, and how?” Followed by; “I need to be alone now.“
HOW COULD HE FORGET TO TELL ME?!
So I sat in my living room alone, huffed and puffed a bit, and then cried.
Apparently, Vicky got very ill sometime after Christmas and passed away. And even though she’s a dog, and not even my dog, I’m very sad, more sad than one should probably be about a dog that never belonged to her.
But you see, when I first came to Le Petit Village on holiday, before moving here, and before Fifty was even a thought in my head or even born for that matter, I met Vicky. She belonged to Child Bride’s parents and roamed the village freely, greeting tourists and villagers alike, always looking for a pat on the head, or a treat.
Of course I bonded with her immediately. I like dogs anyway, but we really bonded because Vicky didn’t judge me for not speaking French, or roll her eyes at my pronunciation, and she never laughed at my funny accent. So I found myself making friends with Vicky, petting, cooing, and avoiding eye contact with the people conversing around me. And when I moved here and brought home a three month old Fifty, she mothered him with me. She came for walks with him and nudged him along.
I’ll miss her smush mush boxer face. I’ll miss how excited she’d be to see me and how she’d invite herself into the house (sometimes even opening the door herself), and watching her play with Fifty (even when they would cheat at rugby)
you were a good dog
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