I sit here.
I try to write, but nothing is happening.
Stacey's cat, Merlin, died. He had him since 1992, when he got him from a shelter.
He wrote about it. It made me sad.
I have an old dog. He just turned 15.
Puck.
My friends, Will Danger and Leo, picked him out as a puppy, and raised him while they got their engineering degrees at Purdue, in Indiana.
Side note: Will is a fisherman.
He caught a trout and brought it back to the same farmhouse where they had Puck. He brought it back in a coffee can, alive. He decided to keep it.
He bought a kiddie pool, lined the bottom with gravel and put an aerator ((sp?)) in it. It sat in the living room of their house, right between the two easy chairs in which Will and Leo reclined to watch the telly.
They fed it flies and watched it rise.
A couple of times, it tried to break free and flopped onto their nasty-ass carpet.
The trout lived out the semester, and Will took it back to the river where he caught it, and let it go.
I alway loved that story.
Anyway, Puck.
I ended up with him.
Leo moved back to the Dam with him after engineering school. He lived a block away from me, and we were the best of friends.
The best.
Leo ended up getting a job at Harley Davidson as an engineer, which required a lot of hours and a long commute.
Puck stayed outside, on a zipline with food and water.
I used to walk my other dog down the block.
We would see Puck, and stop to say hi.
After a bit, I just started walking him. And then, rather than clip him back to the zipline, I started taking home.
Leo and I would hang out, and if he had a big week, I'd take Puck.
Gradually, Puck became mine.
That was 8 years ago.
Labels: Puck
