The richest dog in the world

I am not really the richest dog in the world, that was to get your attention. I am certainly not the late Gunther the Third, may he fetch forever in the prairies of heaven, the German shepherd who got 65 million from his human when she passed away. And not even one of those Oprah Winfrey's canines who are poised to inherit a $30 million trust fund when the time comes. In my case, it’s just $20,000.

At the time of her death, my human owned exactly: a rusty Subaru sedan "that brought me all the way from there to here," as she used to say, though I am not sure where "there" was; a huge plasma TV we had found on the sidewalk during the daily patrol; an old Lenovo computer that was left behind by a previous roommate, together with a goodbye note and half of the rent she owed; and varied worthless personal objects, including some bland clothing, three bookcases’ worth of worn novels, and two dozen tea cups in various shapes and sizes. Plus $20,000 in cash. Those, she wrote in her will, should be used to ensure I would live the best fucking days of my life (her words), eating the best food and getting the best pedicures and so on. So, assuming I would need some external help to get that accomplished, you see how I was in fact her most prized possession.

And they did fight over me, oh boy. I could hear their screams from the small damp alcove I had carved under the patio to keep safe from lightning, visitors, and sudden trips to the vet. They were two remote cousins of my human. She had nobody left, and it took the notary forever to track down some family member who could come and take care of the paperwork and her things. In the meantime I was parked at the neighbors’ house. They had never really liked me since as a puppy I had dug big holes around their blooming begonias until blooming they were not. We never connected after that, see. My human would wave if we happened to cross them but that was it. And that had stopped a couple of years ago anyway, when my human got sick and our walks became sparser and shorter and then nothing. I am not complaining here, she took very good care of me, and we loved each other to the last. But I will never forgive her for what she did. As they say of parents and children: I was not supposed to bury her. For years I believed I was peeing on the little piece of turf that she would make into my resting place, maybe adorning it with flowers and a small wood sign. I had not planned for this.

So I ran away, you know. It was stupid, I am an old cranky dog, I knew I could not survive long on my own, but I just did not get good vibes from those two. I heard what they said about me. I heard that the money was cash, so who would ever know, and that I would die soon anyway. It did not bode well, plus I was still distraught over the loss of my human and wasn't thinking clear. So I just kept trotting until I got lost into some field where I could not smell anything familiar or even remotely reassuring, and the only humans I could see were darting over the highway, sealed into shiny caskets.

Since that day I have been surviving on the scraps of food that collect along the edge of the road and under the freeway overpasses, and I have been living off the kindness of strangers, especially kids, who bring me water and milk and on a good day even macaroni. They will be the ones who will miss me now that I am ready to go. I wish they could get the money.

Hey, listen, it’s not a bad thing, this is not turning into the tearful story of old Buddy dying alone. I am a dog, I am cool with that. I feel well, I am not in pain, and I am simply lying down here, letting the time flow in and out of the slits of my nose. Death just comes to you while you're alive. That’s why I cannot understand why she did what she did. I don’t mean the money. That was, I guess, her final coup de theatre, her j’accuse against the world that had left her alone. It was done out of spite, not of love, of course. And I am fine with that too. But her death was all but natural. It was not her time.

For the past several months she had done all sorts of bad things to herself, with pills, loud men, and sharp objects. She never ever raised one hand on me, not even when I scared the shit out of her pusher’s dog, who ran away squeaking and crossed the street and was almost turned into Frenchie spread by the mail truck. Ha. That would have been a sight. But see, these are the regrets I have. I wish I had gotten more of that mysterious powder she would sprinkle over my food to make it taste so special, and I wish I had not snapped at her the very first time she reached through the cage to get to me. Not that it mattered through the years, I am sure she would not even remember if you could ask her, but it stuck with me the way she looked at me, she was more frightened than I was, and I just wish I had been kinder to her from the get-go. And oh, it was so fun to be with her, especially the first years, the hikes, the runs at the beach, before something went wrong at her job, or wherever it was that she spent her time without me, and we had to move out of the big place with all the grass and the trees outside and into that smaller place with the tiny barren backyard, and the quality of the food really went down, even if I pretended I wouldn’t notice as far as the powder was there. I never thought she felt alone before then. In fact, I think she did not. It was when her world began crumbling around her that she started crying and cursing at herself pacing up and down in her room, for being so stupid, so stupid and alone.

She was pacing up and down that last night too, before I heard a loud bang that sent me right into my panic room. I learned later that filling my twin ceramic bowls with food and water was the last thing she did. They found a small black notebook in the pocket of her robe, where she had carefully penned her will, including the words about the best fucking days of my life. Well, I did not get any pedi but for the asphalt filing my nails to the bone, and the food has not always been great to tell you the truth. But I had a good life, and I leave this world in peace, lulled by the buzzing of insects and the wind rustling through the grass.

And as I let go of my weight on this earth I start sinking down through walls of dirt, or maybe it is magic powder that is enveloping me, burying with me that useless money and my human’s loneliness.