Clair’s dog, Othello, got hit by a car yesterday and passed away. My little sister, Serena, discovered him on the side of a busy street after she learned he had dashed out of the house when a door was left open.
Needless to say, I’m broken-hearted. I feel horrible for Clair, who never had a pet of her own before that black little ball of fur came home with her eight years ago. I feel horrible for Serena who carried his lifeless little body in her arms. Most of all, I feel horrible for Serena’s dog, Harry, AKA the other pea in Othello’s pod.
He was with Othello when they made one of their infamous escapes into suburbia yesterday morning and, as it turned out, the last one they’d make as a team. We’re pretty sure Harry, a springer spaniel and the much bigger of the two, saw the accident go down. He made his way back to my mom’s house on his own and hasn’t been himself since.
When Clair, Serena and Venus returned from cremating Othello at the vet’s they couldn’t help but notice a void — not the obvious one.
There hasn’t been a single time I’ve opened the door to my mom’s house and haven’t been greeted by a freckled, speckled springer spaniel, wagging his tail in the face of a black ball of fur. Both of them thrived on guests. And by thrive I mean jump, lick and nearly accost. Last I heard, Harry wasn’t even noticing the doorbell much less the person who dinged it. He wasn’t coming when called and spent the day laying down in solitude, sighing big sighs.
In short, he’s acting like he lost his best friend.
They became fast friends because they had so much in common. Both of them hated kids playing on their lawn and would express their volatile disapproval through my mom’s front windows. Both thought Othello, who had a strong case of Napoleon syndrome, was a descendant of royalty and as such should be granted all of his own food, plus a good share of Harry’s. And, both liked to bestow their masters with grand gifts like dead mice or, when they were feeling really generous, decapitated birds.
I’ll miss waking up to his paws on the side of the couch-turned-X’s bed when I sleep over there. Serena will miss feeding Othello from the kitchen counter and watching him let the scraps fall on his furry face. Clair will miss walking down her long hallway every morning and hearing Othello jump off the couch he wasn’t supposed to be sleeping on (sometimes he’d even whistle for an extra dash of “just mindin’ my own business”). And Harry will miss committing his petty crimes with a partner who was ride or die ’til the very end.