Sexy Mama

The only dog I ever cried for.

Sexy Mama is not a woman or even a person, but a dog. I called her Sexy for the swish sway of her gait and the whimper whine of her bark. She only French kissed. (Her mouth was remarkably sweeter than mine.) Like a lady, she'd always lightly nibble before taking a treat. If it was a bone or anything meaty, she'd carry it just out of sight, scarf it down, then come right back for more. Always happy, her tail never stopped wagging.

A small dog, probably half Schnauzer and pure bred mutt, Sexy had seven bastard, but healthy, rowdy puppies two months ago, but she acted like it wasn't her first rodeo. All but Mama were quickly picked up by eagerly awaiting owners once they had their shots.

Based on that, I figured she was at least two years old.

Out of the handful of dogs that have entered my life, she was the one who affected me the most. And she wasn't even my dog. I was just the one who kept her fed. She insisted on sleeping under my bed.

A couple weeks ago, when I went to the store she followed me there, sneaking in behind me. There, I bought a cheap leash—she was too strong. She broke free. I heard a low thump.

I had never fought back so many tears. Mama changed my life. I blamed myself.

She rests forever in my backyard.