When I was a little kid all I wanted was a dog. My parents spent years making the decision of what kind of dog and when. I really wanted a pug. I loved pugs. My parents finally decided on getting a West Highland White Terrier, or Westie. We went to pick out the dog and I was kind of annoyed how small they were (yes, I know I wanted to get a pug) so I picked out the biggest one and thought we should get that one. My brother however liked the little one who was biting at his shoelace. My parents agreed. He was weird looking for a Westie, I think we might have had to promise not to breed him because he was not up to some sort of standard, but we got was an amazing dog. He was born on the fourth of July so we called him Freedom. 17 years later he was somehow still with us. Up until a few years ago you would have never known he was in his teens. He jumped around like a puppy for most of his life. One day however, he didn’t come home for a long time. We looked everywhere for him. When he finally came home he was limping. He had been hit in the head somehow. We never found out what happened but he lost one of his eyes and pretty much never ran again. He stopped going upstairs and eventually lost most of his hearing. He turned into an old dog over night, but eventually got used to his handicap and started wagging his tail again. My mom took better care of that dog than anyone has ever taken care of any dog and when she called me to tell me that she had to put him to sleep 5 months to the day before his 18th birthday I was more upset for her than I was about my childhood pet. I love that dog, and I think that when I go visit my parents it is going to kill me not to see his bed in the kitchen, but for me, listening to my mom talk about him is what makes me want to cry. She has talked about getting another dog, and that is almost as upsetting to me. I just think about how if the new dog lived as old as Freedom, my parents will be nearly 80. Thinking about my dogs mortality makes me think about saying good bye to my parents one day and that distant thought is as upsetting as his passing. I have been ready for Freedom’s death, it has been years since he has been himself and we almost had to put him down once before, but still I get choked up when I think about all the times I spent as a little kid playing with him, going to the beach with him, or thinking about my mom brushing his teeth despite his best efforts to escape. I will miss that dog forever, 17 years is a long time to know someone… By my calculations he was 123 in dog years… Writing this is really the first time since I heard that we were going to put him down where I have let myself even think about it and I am fighting back tears. Fuck. At least he lived to see a black president, I am sure when he was a puppy growing up in Virginia he never thought he would live to see that day. I just wish he had made it to 18 so he could have bought his first scratch off, gotten tattooed and could have stopped sending me into 7-11 to buy him smokes.

Rest in peace Freedom, we miss you.

7.4.91 – 2.4.09

Update: Found another photo…

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