Pets were never, I admit, in my vocabulary, but one Father's Day my normally stoic father brought home a very shy little dog for the family; his way of saying happy Dad's Day. And my sisters immediately named him Frisky. To me, however, he became my little buddy and was named FritchFrotch.
We bonded.
Whenever I said the magic word, "adventure", he ran to the kitchen door, waited for me to open it and then raced to the right all the way around the house and back to me, plopped down, for an adventure, walk. We did that all through school.
I eventually went off to college and didn't get to see much of my little buddy. The summer after graduating I came home, finally, and opened the door and quickly called out "adventure".
My much older little buddy zoomed out the door, ran as fast as he could all the way around the house and plopped down at my feet...and died. FritchFrotch had waited.
I carefully picked him up and took him for another walk, an adventure, with a tiny tear or three streaming down my cheeks. And buried him in a hidden place. There were no more little buddies for me, ever.
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