We lost Farlig.

Quite frankly, he was never really healthy. He had cataracts, liver problems, bad joints, weak lungs, prostrate troubles, terrible digestion . . . the list goes on and on. Pretty much everything that could have gone wrong did.

We had almost ten years with him, so we shouldn't complain. HA. Jas, Elmo, and I are totally miserable, and lonely. Our house is terribly quiet. It's been two months now, and I still cry.

Farlig was a victim of puppy farming. When we got him, we didn't know anything about this horror. These places relentlessly breed animals; for one thing, increasing the amount of genetically transmitted diseases and health problems. They treat the animals horribly-leaving them to wallow in their own filth. Worms and other canine diseases like kennel cough and parvo can happen at a very young age potentially damaging growth. The puppies are then patched up so they'll pass the cursory pet store exam, and shipped wherever.

Of course, the high value placed on a "pure-breed" dog with "papers" just continues this shit. Your Dalmatian will go blind and become senile at an early age. Your German Shephard and Pit Bull will have painful arthritis and emotional problems. Your Poodle will have bad teeth and cataracts. Smaller dogs like Yorkies and Chihuahuas will have difficulty swallowing and breathing.

Look, go to the pound. Get a mutt. Elmosis is a mutt and she has been sick twice in the five years I've had her.

Don't get me wrong. From the first time we saw him in the pet store looking like a small fuzzy brown torpedo (He ate a cricket!) to the last hours when Jas and I held him to stop his trembling, he was nothing but wonderful. Yes, he ate my earrings, and barked if someone even looked at the house, but whenever one of us wasn't feeling well, he was right there, guarding us from whatever dangers he could face. He let us dye his hair purple, and give him mohawks and liberty spikes. No matter where we went, he would charge after us, ready for adventure. He went to high school. He went to college. He got to eat in restaurants, and go to Daytona. He could pull me on a bike or a skateboard. I told him secrets. He would stomp on me until I woke up. He would sit on the paper when I was trying to read it. He gave my mom a dead lizard. He knocked over beers so he could drink them. He would sneeze in my garden. We were the centers of his universe. Whenever he wasn't feeling well (which was often) he would huddle next to us-looking at us--expecting us to make him feel better. This time we couldn't.

He died curled up next to me where he's slept almost every night of his life. I can't get used to him not being there. I want my dog back. We should've had more time with him.

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