Now what you also need to know is that this is NOT a eulogy. Quite frankly Pickle
, you don’t deserve one
, because, as you are well aware, your behavior from birth, right up to the bitter end, was unequivocally terrible. As a pup, you crunched every CD cover in the house for fun. You chewed through electrical cable and telephone wires. You ripped shoes and gobbled plastic. You dived into bins, rolled in shit and licked piss off of pavements. You ate my bedposts. As an adult you graduated to raiding fridges and picnics, you stole ice cream from the mouths of infants, you jumped onto Christmas tables laden with pudding and cake and blithely walked through them all, inhaling everything in your wake. You puked on everything decent I ever owned. You never came when called, never followed a path, never observed the green cross code and only sat on command when you could see either a cube of cheese or chicken in my hand (organic, or free-range at a push) And last, but not least, you shat in my bed (yes, I know they were dry and discreet little shits, but they are still shits, you shit) H
ere’s another thing, while I’m at it
m angry. Why? Because you, madam, are a liar. You made me think you were OK. You allowed me to drop you off at our mate
farm and leave you there for weeks while I went away working thinking that all was well. Yet it
t, was it? The cancer fire was already lit, sweeping through your body, laying waste to it while my back was turned. I look back at photos sent to me whilst I was way from you, and I can see it now
that faint dimming of the eyes, the gentle slackening of muscle. The tiniest, tiniest changes in that cashmere fur of yours. It haunts me still. Had I been there, I would have noticed, would I not? Me, your anxious guardian and keeper of eleven and a half years.