Sexy Mama

The only dog I ever cried for.

         Sweet sexy Mama is not a woman or even a person, but a dog. A beautiful, shy dog who lived to be loved.

I called her Sexy for the wide swish sway of her gait and the whimper whining of her bark. She had this sneaky penchant for constantly ambush French kissing me. (Her mouth was remarkably sweeter than mine.)

Like a lady, she'd always lightly nibble before taking a treat. If it were a bone or anything meaty, she'd carry it just out of sight, scarf it down, then come running back for more. Always happy, her blond tail never, ever stopped wagging.

A medium small dog, probably half Schnauzer and pure bred mutt, Sexy had seven bastard, but healthy, rowdy puppies, but I could tell it wasn't her first rodeo. All but Mama were quickly picked and paid for by eagerly awaiting dog lovers. Of course, they'd already been given their mandatory shots.

Based on that, I figured she was at least two, maybe three years old.

Out of the handful of dogs that have came into my life, she was the one that affected me the most. And the loving mother wasn't even my dog. I was just the one who kept her fed. She insisted on sleeping either under or preferably in my bed.

A couple weeks ago, I went to the store. She followed me there, sneaking in behind me. There, I stupidly bought a cheap leash—she was so much stronger than I thought. By sheer will, she broke free. I heard a low thump. The careless driver of the SUV hit her at around thirty to thirty-five miles an hour. No swerve, honk or screeching tires.

I had never fought back so many tears. My sweet little Mama changed my life. I blamed myself.

She rests forever in my backyard.