the lugubrious expat

i was 14 and i put you in your basket. you wandered from it. you always wandered. you were gypsy.

gypsy. gyppy. gyp. remembering a runt. you got grass seeds that made your face swell up like small balloon; the vet had to stick his pincers straight in there and i was amazed at how something so small could affect you so much. you had a droopy eye that clouded over in green puss; we had to spray blue stuff straight into it and it made you look a little like a punk. your ears dangled in your drinking bowl and never seemed to dry out in their matted tips. you spun circles in the air when you wanted food and often crashed into the furniture. your breath would smell like you had been eating dead sheep; sometimes you had been eating dead sheep. you lay on your back and spread your legs like a slutty bitch when a cuddle was on hand. you wimpered and scratched outside my bedroom door when i was selfishly sleeping in. i learned what it meant to be responsible for something. you became hard of hearing and tore chunks from our toes when we accidentally kicked you under the dinner table.

and now you are gone. i knew that last cuddle would be the last cuddle. gypsy, i hope we did ok by you. i love you.