002 - Writing Prompt - "Write something to make me cry."

The first one died from an infected cut along her nose. We didn't have the money to bring her to the vet. The truth is, we never should have owned dogs. My family was struggling to get by with clothing for three children and food enough for five, yet we decided to raise three dogs. I'm sure it felt like a pre-requisite to living on a farm, but the amount of care given to the dogs was less than ideal.

I would have been mad at my family if I knew any better. I was just a kid in love with three dogs. They weren't rowdy, untrained, overbearing creatures to me; they were simply friends filled with too much love. I could have given them more care. I should have been a better friend.

So the Dalmatian - Bailey- who was always a bit snippy, bit the German Shepard -Tippy- on the nose. The cut was bad, but we didn't have the money. So we waited. For a week, it looked like it was getting better. I was hopeful. But another week passed and suddenly Tippy wasn't the rambunctious one anymore. The cut never seemed to change, but I remember the look in her eyes. If she were human, it would have been sadness. It would have been defeat.

I don't know when she died. One night she was there, hiding away in her doghouse as I brought her food. The next, as I returned from school, I was told that her body had been buried out back. I never saw the corpse. I never saw the grave. I never said goodbye.

The second to go was Bailey. She was old, I know, and her hair had never done much good at providing insulation against the bone snapping cold of Minnesota. She had been the reason Tippy died, so it was not much of a surprise when my family was angry at her. My dad seemed to be the only one that noticed that she was dying too. He worked 14 hours through the night, and yet he would come home and spend hours out in the frigid cold trying to warm and comfort her.

I don't know if she froze to death, or if she simply gave up after watching her lifelong companion die. I saw her corpse, days after she died, frozen in a curled up ball. She made no sound, but I imagined her high pitched whine calling out for me, "Stay with me. Keep me warm. Please, stay with me."

Losing two dogs in a week was hard enough, but I turned to my last dog for support. His name was Spot, for the large spot he had over one of his eyes. He was a mut, but large and never without desire to give you attention. Most of his life was spent chained to a tree, but he struggled constantly to pull himself free. Multiple chains were snapped, link by link as he yearned to spend more time with people. He managed to loosen collars, allowing himself to wiggle backwards until he was free.

He wasn't allowed inside, but he always found himself at our door, scratching and barking until someone would chain him up again. I don't know if he was lonely or if he just wanted to play, but I know that I never spent enough time with him until Bailey and Tippy had perished.  Much like my father had spent time with Bailey, I found myself spending late nights out with Spot in the cold, just cuddled up in the snow. I had a friend to take care of. I had failed the others, but I was going to do better with Spot. I was going to spend all of my free time with him. I was going to take care of him and make sure he wouldn't die too.

Until he did, three days later. I woke with the sunrise, excited for a new wintery day to spend with my pal. I looked out of my second story window to see if I could see him. I could. It looked as if he had broken free from his collar again. He was laying in the snow about halfway to the door of the house. A tree was blocking most of my vision, so I ran downstairs to see what he was doing.

My father was already standing at the door, looking out at the snow. He wasn't crying, but the air around him held the soul-crushing pain of a funeral. I followed his gaze to a mixture of blood and vomit that trailed from Spot's doghouse to his body some fifteen feet away. Spot was laying in the snow, unmoving. I asked my dad what happened, but he shook his head, unsure. Spot was dead. I was only ten, but I knew he was dead. There was too much blood. Too much vomit. My friend had died, alone, struggling with his last bloody breath to reach my doorstep.

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