Unfaithful is my darling love.Changing as the stars in the sky.An ignorant passerby as the crisp clouds above.What an unfaithful creature,Promising oaths many to stay,Yet breaking this old heart of mine,When time comes our way.Why must time call thus unfaithful love of mine away?
I am of the strong belief that everyone of every country or religion, ethnicity and gender, both big and small, old and young, introverted and extroverted, thinker and feeler, is united in the similar feature that each has their own concept of what they chose to believe to be a perfect dog.
No, not as the world may designate the perfect canine, but as their individual hearts may desire, imagining the perfect and kind companion to accompany them through their walk in life, a reliable friend through even the most ruggaded of terrains.
The sort of individual to see you in both your worst and best times and never judge, the sort you could feed unfiltered love to without fear of being abandoned, the sort that would follow you wherever you went, the sort that would give their life for yours without a second thought.
To some extent, I think even cat people can agree upon this that everyone has an idea of what they might call the perfect dog.
Some might overlook such a treasured companion in a desire to shield their heart or in a sure lack of empathy, others might go their entire lives without finding one, but even so, some very lucky souls will happen upon that friend that their heart deems the perfect dog.
And Allen was positive he found just that.
It didn't matter to him the over eating, the whining, the playful and not so playful biting. The occasional pee spot or soiled sheets hardly concerned him because that golden retriever was all he had left.
He recalled all to vividly picking him up from the mall as a birthday present from Mana. He was so small then, so healthy, so full of life. His fur seemed to glitter like gold in the sunlight and his nose was so wet.
He was five years old then and he always recalled getting insulted when his uncle Nea told him that the name "Timcampy" was a dumb name. He was so very sensitive back then.
Allen recalled liking the puppy a bit less when he chewed up his favorite pillow and dumped over the trash when Allen and Mana were out for the day. Allen threw a small fit, being the obsessive clean freak he was, and hit Tim quite a few times.
Mana was always quite wise with these sorts of things. To make sure it never happened again, he consulted his good friend, Cross Marian, who was good with dogs and training them.
It helped him pee and poop less on the living room carpet, but it never got rid of that puppy's free and intelligent spirit. That's one thing Allen always loved about him, that he never lost who he truly was, and that was a puppy that just wanted to have fun.
And boy, did they have fun.
Distant memories like these attack him at all fronts.
He wants to blame someone, he wants to blame to blame others and himself, but he knows he won't.
Timcampy's passing at the rightful age of eleven was not traumatic. He knew it had been coming for some time, but that hardly kept him from tearing at the grass in front of a shallow grave, weeping for the only remnant of his past, the only thing that reminded him of who he used to be.
He would always be missed. Allen would never forget his best friend.
I am of the strong belief that everyone of every country or religion, ethnicity and gender, both big and small, old and young, introverted and extroverted, thinker and feeler, is united in the similar feature that each has their own concept of what they chose to believe to be a perfect dog.
And Allen was positive he found just that and lost it.
(Rest in peace Robin, my definition of the perfect dog. 2006- 2018, I think. She passed away last night. Good night, good bye, and see you later.)