Juliet came to our family under our garage.
A local lady dog of negotiable virtue had a litter with puppies resembling nearly every male dog in the neighborhood. Juliet has a lot of her mother and collie father; her brother, Romeo, was a wedge-headed dummy whose pit ancestry shown through in his loyalty and thickness. (Romeo passed away last year.) The names are what happens when you let 8-year-olds sit in on Shakespeare Club meetings.
Juliet’s dearest hope was to grow up and be a lapdog. She always clambered, muddy paws delicate and head demurely down, into the nearest lap which didn’t run off.
Growing older, she has gotten sick. She is thin, cannot move well, and looks in pain. It is time for her to join her brother in the land of ever-warm and stationary laps, doggie treat sidewalks, and quiet sunlight.
Because I go to college ten states away from her, I asked my brother to Skype me so I could say goodbye to her.
Good dog Juliet. Good dog.
“Properly trained, a man can be dog’s best friend.”–Corey Ford