Harvey. Harvles. Stinky old fish.
I recently lost my dog. He was a Labrador, 13 years old. He came to us when we needed him most and immediately became my best friend. He had lymphoma. I don’t want him to be gone.
Pooch. Mushroom bum. Waggles.
Words fail me. As a writer, this is rare, but there is nothing I can say to make you understand what this dog meant to me. He was beautiful, gentle, quirky. He was clever, stupid and manic. He was Harvey.
Wiggy dog. Wiggles. Stoopid poopid.
He used to get me out of bed in the mornings. First, he would shake his head. Then he would poke his nose under the covers to dig me out. Failing that, he would bury his head under my pillow and lick my face. One time, he climbed up and stood on me. The whole time, his tail would be thumping against the wall like a war drum. All because it was time for a little walk.
Slow coach. Pumpkin. Babyboy.
He only ever wanted to play with other dogs when they weren’t very friendly. Or if they weren’t allowed off the lead. But the people… Well, he’d be friends with anyone for a gravy bone!
Harbar. Doggy. Hound.
But now… Now there will be no more cuddles on the sofa. No more belly rubs. No more piggy time. He’ll never lead me around the house for no discernable reason or take me on one of his missions around the estate. No one will wag at me when I come into the house. No one will sleep on the bed when I’m not looking.
H. Harvs. Harvey.
He shouldn’t be gone. He shouldn’t have gone that way. He was the kindest, specialest doggy in the whole wide world. I never met a single person who didn’t like him. Even people who hate dogs liked him. And they may be other dogs in the future, but there will never be another like Harvey.