[cmgny42]

Hi everyone,
I wasn't sure if this was posted on here before or not, but I received it in an email and it really got to me so I thought I would share it with you.

A letter from a dog – "How Could You?"
by Jim Willis

When I was a puppy , I entertained you with my antics and made you laugh.
You called me your child, and despite a number of chewed shoes and a couple of murdered throw pillows ,
I became your best friend. Whenever I was "bad," you'd shake your
finger at me and ask, "How could you?" -- but then you'd relent and
roll me over for a belly rub.

My housebreaking took a little
longer than expected, because you were terribly busy, but we worked on
that together. I remember those nights of nuzzling you in bed and listening
to your confidences and secret dreams, and I believed that life could not be any more perfect.

We
went for long walks and runs in the park, car rides, stops for ice
cream (I only got the cone because "ice cream is bad for dogs" you
said), and I took long naps in the sun w aiting for you to come home at
the end of the day.

Gradually, you began spending more time at
work and on your career, and more time searching for a human mate. I
waited for you patiently, comforted you through heartbreaks and
disappointments, never chided you about bad decisions, and romped with
glee at your homecomings, and when you fell in love.

She, now
your wife, is not a "dog person" -- still I welcomed her into our home,
tried to show her affection, and obeyed her. I was happy because you
were happy. Then the human babies came along and I shared your
excitement. I was fascinated by their pinkness, how they smelled, and I
wanted to mother them, too. Only she and you worried that I might hurt
them, and I spent most of my time banished to another room, or to a dog crate.

Oh,
how I wanted to love them, but I became a "prisoner of love." As they
began to grow, I became their friend. They clung to my fur and pulled
themselves up on wobbly legs, poked fingers in my eyes, investigated my
ears, and gave me kisses on my nose. I loved everything about them and
their touch -- because your touch was now so infrequent -- and I
would've defended them with my life if need be. I would sneak into
their beds and listen to their worries and secret dreams, and together
we waited for the sound of your car in the driveway.

There had
been a time, when others asked you if you had a dog, that you produced
a photo of me from your wallet and told them stories about me. These
past few years, you just answered "yes" and changed the subject. I had
gone from being "your dog" to "just a dog," and you resented every
expenditure on my behalf. Now, you have a new career opportunity in
another city, and you and they will be moving to an apartment that does
not allow pets. You've made the right decision for your "family," but
there was a time when I was your only family.

I was excited about the car ride until we arrived at the animal shelter .
It smelled of dogs and cats, of fear, of hopelessness. You filled out
the paperwork and said, "I know you will find a good home for her."
They shrugged and gave you a pained look. T hey understand the
realities facing a middle-aged dog, even one with "papers." You had to
pry your son's fingers loose from my collar, as he screamed, "No,
Daddy! Please don't let them take my dog!" And I worried for him, and
what lessons you had just taught him about friendship and loyalty,
about love and responsibility, and about respect for all life.

You
gave me a good-bye pat on the head, avoided my eyes, and politely
refused to take my collar and leash with you. You had a deadline to
meet and now I have one, too. After you left, the two nice ladies said
you probably knew about your upcoming move months ago and made no
attempt to find me another good home. They shook their heads and asked,
"How could you?"

They are as attentive to us here in the shelter
as their busy schedules allow. They feed us, of course, but I lost my
appetite days ago. At first, whenever anyone passed my pen, I rushed to
the front, hoping it was you that you had changed your mind -- that
this was all a bad dream... or I hoped it would at least be someone who
cared, anyone who might save me. When I realized I could not compete
with the frolicking for attention of happy puppies, oblivious to20their own fate, I retreated to a far corner and waited.

I
heard her footsteps as she came for me at the end of the day, and I
padded along the aisle after her to a separate room. A blissfully quiet
room. She placed me on the table and rubbed my ears, and told me not to
worry. My heart pounded in anticipation of what was to come, but there
was also a sense of relief. The prisoner of love had run out of days.
As is my nature, I was more concerned about her. The burden which she
bears weighs heavily on her, and I know that, the same way I knew your
every mood. She gently placed a tourniquet around my foreleg as a tear
ran down her cheek. I licked her hand in the same way I used to comfort
you so many years ago. She expertly slid the hypodermic needle into my
vein. As I felt the sting and the cool liquid coursing through my body,
I lay down sleepily, looked into her kind eyes and murmured, "How could
you?"

Perhaps because she understood my dog speak, she said,
"I'm so sorry." She hugged me, and hurriedly explained it was her job
to make sure I went to a better place, where I wouldn't be ignored or
abused or abandoned, or have to fend for myself -- a place of love and
light so very different from this earthly place. And with my last bit
of energy, I tried to convey to her with a thump of my tail that my
"How could you?" was not directed at her.

It was directed at
you, My Beloved Master, I was thinking of you. I will think of you and
wait for you forever. May everyone in your life continue to show you so
much loyalty.

A Note from the Author:

If "How
Could You?" brought tears to your eyes as You read it, as it did to
mine as I wrote it, it is because it is the composite story of the
millions of formerly "owned" pets who die each year in American &
Canadian animal shelters.