Sunday, December 19

Doc


Doc died Friday.  Words from our friend Carrie describe him and our feelings well:

I found out this morning that Doc, one of the dogs I got to know so well at Harmony Hill, was hit by a car today and killed. 

Anyone who met him could immediately discern a few things about Doc. One, that despite his size, he was still a puppy, and still stupid from it. And two, that he didn't have a mean bone in his body, and that he really, truly, wanted to please you. Even if he couldn't pay attention long enough to make that happen. 

He wasn't a good fit on the farm, because he really didn't listen well, he thought with his nose, and he was constantly getting into stuff, or running off, or chewing up things, or climbing on the bed, or racing circles around the yard. He reminded me of a three-year old boy - of my little brother, when he was small - in that the only time he was ever still was when he was asleep. He drove us up a wall, and got yelled at maybe more often than he strictly deserved, but underneath that he was really growing into a good dog. He would've been a perfect pet for a little kid - he loved kids. 

He liked to chase cars, because they went fast and Doc was sure he could go faster ... and I guess a car finally caught him, today.

Damn. I kept going about my day, making cookies, reading, doing whatever, and then I'd think, "Shit. Doc." And things would get just a little grayer, and my heart would squeeze in my chest, and I'd find myself frowning. 

No matter how I look at it, it just bloody well sucks. 

But I tell myself that his spirit is free now, to chase all the rabbits and foxes and cars he wants, and free to eat chicken eggs to his heart's content with no one to complain about the resulting smells, and free to race the wind, as he so obviously was meant to do.

Rest in peace, Doc-amus. We'll miss you.
Aaron and I put him to rest in the field where he loved to romp and play.

Night night Doc Doc.

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