Alright. This one's been in my head for a few days now so I guess I can be bothered to commit it to the keyboard. If I fall behind in Facebook quizzes because of the time invested, the blame rests squarely on your shoulders.
The other night, I was listening to my favorite two vultures, Carol Off and Barbara Budd on CBC's As It Happens. They were marveling at the story of how a poem written by a teenaged Bob Dylan at his summer camp is up for auction, and how upon its recent unveiling, it's been exposed as having been a dead knock off (emulation?) of a sad country song called "Little Buddy" by Hank Snow. The auction house is unwavering in its glee at having the handwritten poem, despite it being taken nearly verbatim from the old song, and it's expected to sell for around fifteen thousand dollars.
After telling the story, they played the song. It's a heartsick love letter to a dying dog. As the sickening lyrics unfolded, I glanced over at the darling Jude riding shotgun beside me and I wanted to cry. I became convinced that we were having a weird moment, like Jude was going to go on to die in his sleep that night. I dismissed wherever I had planned on driving to and turned around to take him directly to Petland, his favorite shopping spot. He behaved gallantly on his leash, proud to for once not be in Georgia's huge public shadow. He felt important. He picked out a new bed, a new squeaky baby, a polo shirt and a box of peanut butter bones. 
When we were about finished, having inspected every smelly spot on the floor, after having tolerated people with their slobby toddlers reaching out to pet him-- all without snarling even once, it bears mentioning, we went to the till with his pile of stuff.
The cashier did her required "Oh who's a nice puppy" routine and tossed a treat to him. He picked it up, cautiously, and then spat it preciously back to the floor. I said, "I guess he didn't want one", so she threw another one down, as if a beige version of the same would please him. Still no. He looked at me for help to make stale cookies stop falling on him. When she leaned over the counter to see for herself, he looked up at her as if to say "I don't care if it's free, shopgirl, it tastes like day old vomit, and while I'm not above eating day old vomit, I don't know where your hands have been". My heart swelled with pride as I realized that while he spent nine years living with my parents, he always was my dog and I vowed to never take my little buddy for granted ever again.
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