I say "this morning,"
But that would be a lie.
In reality,
It was this afternoon,
Shortly after I had waken up for the day.

I had him for
13 years.
13. The cursed, unlucky number.

I was into Tom and Jerry,
When I was 4.
It was a cartoon series
And it had a dog named spike.

So, we decided,
My dog could have the same name.
He was never more undeserving
Of the scary, tough title.

The first day I saw him,
He peed on my leg.
The adults told me
It meant that he liked me.

He was a sweetheart.
Kind,
Caring,
Silly,
Happy,
Fun,
And everything in between.

He barked at passing strangers,
And licked my wounds.
Soon I learned it wasn't only because
He knew I was in pain,
But because he simply
Liked to lick everything.

He was a rescue.
He wore scars on his thighs,
From fighting to get away
From his past life.
He was two when I was four.
He was thirteen when I, fifteen.

The last day I saw him,
He peed on my leg.
Not out of love,
But because he had a stroke
In my arms.

He died shortly after we drove to the vet.
My father told me to pump his chest.
I cried as he struggled to exhale breaths.
Thirty seconds later,
He stopped struggling.
Thirty minutes later,
We arrived at the vet.

And a part of me thinks,
It is completely my fault.
Because while my dog always knew
When I was in pain,
I failed to see his.