I Knew I Loved Him
My little dog Skippy was not a thing. He was my little brother. I was an only child. Skippy came when I was 4. He was a brindle-colored Boston Terrier with a big head and large round brown eyes. He slept with me and was always there, except for the times he would “escape” and come home after rolling in dead fish down by the creek. He would be gone, sometimes for a day or two, and then would show up to take his punishment, which was usually a swat or two followed by a huge hug.
I knew—really knew—I loved him when I had to have him put down when I was 12, after a horrible fight with another dog that tore out one of his eyes. I laid in bed grieving and not eating for three days.