My Dead Dog

As of late, my dog Gus has been sick. His fur has become mottled and clumpy, losing its former sheen. His eyes, once so bright they made me reconsider his supposedly low intelligence, have grown cloudy and dull. He is dying, and I feel that in some small way, his growth and death mirror my own transition from youth, to adolescence, and the early stages of that creeping inevitability we teenagers fear in the deepest recesses of our psyche.

I first met Gus in 1997, when I was in second grade. He was a sprightly young puppy with a fondness for hot dogs (no matter how many times he threw up as a result) and I loved him like any boy loves his dog. He grew up with me, through good times (elementary and high school) and bad (middle school). I am leaving for college on Aug. 3rd, and perhaps he knows that the period in which this boy needs his dog is drawing to a close. At the risk of descending into befuddling sentimentality, I believe that he, like so many other loyal dogs throughout history, has stayed as long as his human needed him. Maybe his final gift is his death. Maybe his final message to me is in the vein of the symbolism of our parallel lives: that the death of my youth must usher in a transition to something much more necessary. Like my faithful dog, I go somewhere I know not of. Hopefully, I can stride into the unknown with as much courage as Gus has shown; his snout held high, uncowed by his last great adventure. RIP Gus