My mom got me a Pomeranian puppy for my 13th birthday. I named him Yoda ’cause of his big ears. He was my best friend. When he was 7 he died because my brother gave him the bones of 50 chicken wings. He ate them all and they shredded up his insides. He died in my arms on our way to the emergency veterinary clinic.
After his heart stopped I tried to give him CPR and I almost brought him back. His eyes fluttered with consciousness long enough for him to look at me and lick my face.
Before he died Yoda sired a litter of puppies. I kept one for myself and named him Spider-Man. He was less than a year old when I moved away to Windsor in 2005. I left him with my dad on the agreement that when I returned to Toronto, three years later, I would take him back.
I never saw that dog again until a few weeks ago.
I have such fond childhood memories of growing up with Yoda but I never gave Spider-Man even the most passing of thoughts. I had completely forgotten about him. I started to think of him as “my father’s dog”.
I am amazed at this dogs loyalty. After almost ten years of never seeing him it’s shocking how demonstratively loving this dog is.
This dog LOVES me.
It’s so weird and it feels completely undeserved.
Animals are better than people.
I’m think I’m gonna go get him some of that fancy, expensive dog food.