Fred, as a dog, sucked.
Let me rephrase; Fred, as a dog, bit. He attacked, screamed and ripped his teeth through little girls, telephone pole repairmen, my sister’s maid of honor, and my face, twice.
I had to have stitches as a three year old. It’s why I’m so pretty. As a seven year old I ran into my house catching the falling blood in my hand so I wouldn’t create a red mess on our floor. At church that Sunday, a well-meaning lady said, “Oh, Peter, It happened again?”
Maybe he was mad about his name. Maybe it was him being born a Cocker Spaniel and not a German Shepherd or Doberman or Irish Wolfhound, that made him overcompensate.
At 11, I had overcome my fear of him. I fed him bang snaps. He became afraid of me. I didn’t like that feeling.
At 12, I stared down a German shepherd running at me about to rip out my throat before a passersby rescued me by jumping out of his car and scaring off the monster.
At 13, he was neglected in the Texas summer by his caretaker while we were on vacation. He survived the heat, lack of water and food until we made it home, and then died the next day. As if to say, “I kept the backyard safe this one last time.” You did, buddy. Sorry we weren’t there to take care of you. You left a hole in our family (and several in my face) when you left.
Crazy dog. Thank you.
I learned determination, mercy, fearlessness. Not from you, because of you.
There will never be another dog who sucks like you did, Fred.
– Peter Nevland,
Wizard of Ads Partner