THE HOLE IN MY HEART

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I think about that first little black and white cocker spaniel more often than you might imagine. I mean, I have included a token gravesite for Princess among several other subsequent pet pooches in my backyard. 

I ran across a site on Amazon which offered personalized photo/caption gray slate tiles which I absolutely loved. Each of the respective fern covered plots of Queenie, Lucy, Bobby, Buddy and, of course, Princess is marked by one of these attractive colorful slates.

Recently, as I was thinking about my precious Princess, and, as usual, tears formed in my eyes, it occurred to me that my beloved pooch had been gone... almost 70 years! And I thought, "How can this be?"

I was around 6 or 7 when a guy at the local fire department, whom my parents knew, told mama about a dog one of the firemen had found wandering near the station. He had called my mother and asked the obvious question,

"Do you think your children would like to have her?"

While I don't recall the details, I expect mama brought up the subject shortly after my brothers and I returned home from school that day.

And I suppose it took all of 23 seconds for all of us to agree that this was a fine idea. And thus, Princess came to live at 670 Formosa Avenue in the small town of Bartow.

I cannot begin to tell you how long our precious pet pooch lived with us. It may have been two months. It may have been two years. And I cannot begin to tell you why our precious pet pooch was allowed to make the mindless choice she made that day.

I can only presume my parents allowed her to live outside; depending that she "knew the hand that fed her" and that she would not stray too far from home. Whatever the case, one day when we kids were at school, Princess "got a wild hair" and began chasing a dump truck which was lumbering down the street at the time. We learned later, (since mama saw it happen), that the driver purposely turned his right front wheel in her direction, and purposely... rolled over her.

Mama said that she scooped Princess up off the road, put her in the car, chased the dump truck driver down, told him that he was responsible for cutting a hole in the hearts of three little boys, and drove quickly to the local vet. 

I never learned the details, whether Princess died on the spot, or whether the vet had to help her cross the proverbial Rainbow Bridge, nor do I know where, or if she was buried. (I assume her body was cremated). I only know how desperately her passing impacted me, and my brothers; and continues to impact me.

Odd, how much time that hole in my heart has taken to heal.

by Bill McDonald, PhD