Last August, during a weak moment (inserted into a weak week and an ever weaker month), Cynthia asked if she could take care of her friend's chihuahua. "Is it temporary?" I asked weakly. "Yes, Mommy," she assured me.
The moment that Brownie moved in, I knew that I had made a fatal error. (You can read the whole story, "Help, There's a Chihuahua in My Kitchen" here.) Brownie didn't care that she had an eviction notice. She was here to stay.
Brownie was a pain. She yapped at guests, terrorized the cats and annoyed Betty. She threw me into frantic yelling fits of "SERENITY NOW!" But, somewhere along the line, I started to fall for the little terrorist. Just yesterday I spent more than an hour in our back yard watching Brownie and little Coco (yes, another dog) scamper about.
You can see where this is going, can't you? (I, on the other hand, am very slow to pick up on foreshadowing.)
When Cynthia woke up this morning and found that Brownie wasn't in her room, she looked outside and found her dead dog in our side yard. Brownie's neck was bleeding and her entrails exposed. We suspect a vicious raccoon.
All of us are sad and traumatized. And I never thought I'd say this, but I miss you, Brownie.
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