 - Last login: 3 hours agoTextuous
- Textuous is a 51 year old guy from Near-N-Yondered, Texas, USA.
- Likes 6 pages • 75 fans • Received 47 reviews
- Member since Mar 30, 2006
Antique Cowboy with tarnished six-shooter, rusty spurs, and swaybacked steed. Garage kept, housebroken, and mannerful. Grammatically textuous, with traces of chivalry and dance-floor etiquette. If you read the blog...the least you can do is say hello and leave a smile or sumthin'.
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MIA
This entry is about heart-ache. This entry is about lost love. This entry is about that hollow feeling in the pit of your stomach...when you can't eat or sleep, don't feel like company, and can't really see much value in bathing. This entry is about the urge to drain a bottle and temporarily numb the pain...and forget you've lost something which can never, ever be replaced.
And no, dear readers, this entry is NOT about a woman. This morning, reluctantly and without fanfare, through misty eyes and past a huge lump in my throat, I officially placed Dog on the MIA list.
He was home Saturday night, but since he has taken to spending the night outside, contentedly sleeping on the porch, and dutifully "guarding" the perimeter of the tree house, I didn't notice any unusual Dog-behavior. And while it's true he only ate half of his supper, I unconsciously chalked it up to the fact that he simply wasn't hungry.
When he didn't show hide nor hair Sunday or Monday, I had to smile at the thought that perhaps he'd found a new lady-friend in the neighborhood. Females do, after all, have a way of making a guy forget to go home, and things like remembering to eat become quite trivial as well.
By yesterday afternoon, I could easily justify organizing a search party, consisting of one, worried-sick, antique cowboy. I combed every square foot of at least 20 acres of woods surrounding the tree house, whistling and calling until my throat was raw.
Remembering the dog-murdering SOB who lives just down the road, I paid him a visit...and although the little bowl of antifreeze was in plain sight next to the steps on his porch, he categorically denied having seen any dogs in his yard at all...especially a big black Lab with trusting brown eyes and a loving outlook towards life. I made sure he saw that I accidentally kicked over the bowl of green liquid as I left, and I hope it kills every last sprig in his ****ing flower bed.
I suppose when we give an animal a name, assume stewardship over its well-being, and find comfort and peace in its individual personality and disposition, we open ourselves fully to the inevitable, eventual heartbreak It therefore becomes necessary, at some point, that we ask ourselves the question...is it worth it? Is loving a pet worth the risk?
Is it worth a pair of chewed-up antelope-skin boots? Is it worth yellow water-stains on a $500, powered, surround-sound sub-woofer? Is it worth short black hairs all over your pillowcase, and muddy paw prints on the bathroom ceiling? (I swear.)
Yes folks, it's worth it...
Dog, you were a lot more than my friend...you made my life better...you made me more than I was. You were MY dog...and that makes me proud. No tip of the hat to you, old man...no...you were a hat-in-hand, down-on-one-knee kinda dog.
Meyer
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