Sexy Mama

Sexy Mama is not a woman or even a person, but a dog. I called her Sexy for the swishy sway of her gait and for 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 the treat. If it was a bone or something meaty, she'd carry it just out of sight to scarf it down, then come right back for more.

A small dog, probably half Schnauzer half 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 four 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 really even my dog. I was just the one who kept her fed and 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 strong. She broke free. I heard a low thump.

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

She's buried in my backyard.