This is a story about Freddie the Dog.
I know that Brother Henry will probably follow up with a Tale of Truffle (it’s a tough month for the Schwallers’ dogs), but this is about Freddie.
Allegedly, Freddie was an eight year old Belgian Shepherd, but to me he was a 65 pound bundle of passive aggressive marshmallow love, wrapped up in two coats of fur. He was David’s dog, but in many ways Freddie was mine too.
It’s ironic that Freddie died on Thanksgiving, a historic day of glory, because when he was a pup, Freddie jumped up on the dinner table and ate the rest of the turkey after the meal. It’s sad that the dog who was all lover and no fighter had his heart stop on his favorite day.
It’s universal - everyone says their dog is special. Everyone says their dog is best. We tend to glorify the dead, forgetting the running off during rainstorms in the middle of the night, constant shedding, the inconvenient forgetting of potty training acquired years ago. I won’t bore you with Freddie’s many talents or the story of his standoff with my parrot, which ended when Birdie took a chunk out of Freddie’s nose and sent him crying. Instead, I will leave you to remember the special dog(s) in your life and tales of their finest exploits.
Good boy, Freddie. I wish you lots of play, cats to chase, car rides and cookies. Thank you for teaching me to be a better human.