About two weeks ago, my dog got out. He loves to run, and he always comes home, so I wasn't terribly worried.
Then Bugsy, the dog who got out with him, came home. Alone. I started to worry. Fast forward ten days, and I kept having a feeling that having the chip in him wasn't enough. I needed to put posters up. So we did. I haven't slept in days, and I keep looking at his spot, wondering whose house he is in, and if there are children there.
Today Aaron woke me up from a nap to tell me he had some bad news, and he had gotten a phone call from a neighbor. Apparently she was out of town, and didn't see the sign until yesterday. She's been trying to call us ever since. Bubba wandered into her property, and two of her dogs attacked and killed him. My Bubba is dead. It's so hard to write those words, and yet, I know I have to. I knew, the day after he got out, that something was wrong. I felt it. I just knew. The universe was not the same anymore. The neighbor, Ms. Hull, had her mother watching her dogs, and she tried to break up the fight, but couldn't.
After the fight was over, she wrapped Bubba in a blanket and buried him for us. When Aaron told me this, I had to get up and call Ms. Hull, and tell her please, not to feel bad, that it wasn't her fault, and if he hadn't been out, it wouldn't have happened. Aaron said she was in tears when she called. I couldn't let her hurt too.
My sweet, loving, innocent fur ball is dead. But that's okay. He was always too good for this world.
July 1, 2006 - June 2, 2010
He was everything a good dog should be.