When I met my precious baby George, he was chained to the side of a trailer with no food or water. The chain had obviously grown into his neck at some point and been loosened, but left a scar. I told the owner I would like to take him, to which he responded, “Sure. I was gonna shoot him but just ain’t got around to it.
I kept buying him smaller and smaller bags of food. He’s kinda gun shy.” I promptly had my husband remove the chain and George, an eighty pound rott mix jumped into my lap a we drove away forever. George liked to chew furniture. He once chewed the end of the rocking chair off while I was in it, nursing my son. He had beautiful golden eyes and always wanted to be in the highest place he could find so he could see that all was secure. I loved him with all my heart and he loved me.
He always buried his rawhide bones immediately and dug them up when they were good and moist and muddy. On April 25, 2005, George was running around my in-laws’ farm when a truck hit him. My father-in-law ran to him and he was bleeding from the mouth and crying. He passed away within minutes. The fact that I was not there to hold him and comfort him at the end will always haunt me.
He is buried in the flower bed with no marker because nothing seems special enough to mark the spot where my boy now lies. Nothing I write will tell you what my George meant to me but there will remain a record of him on this earth so long as I live, because
that’s no less than he deserves.
My comfort is only that George knew he was loved. My fingers ache to sink into the soft fur behind his ears where he liked to be scratched, my heart to see his golden eyes once more.
He will be loved,
| George |
| Megan Porter |