Written by one of my family members.

Memory
Amigo’s Snow

I don’t know how old I was when it happened. Does anyone remember how old they are when

something serious occurs? At the time, one’s age has no influence on what’s happening to them

or around them. After the fact, though, everything is affected by one’s age. Especially the

appearance of a memory: The memory’s scratched or impeccable veneer. The memory’s lambent

lighting or its sharp shadows and corner’s, dark and stained as if steeped in tea. Everyone’s

retroactive perception is changed by the depth of one’s naivety.

So... I don’t know how old I was when he died. I know how old he was though: 14 and a half, at

least in “human years.” My mother preferred to name his age in dog years: about 74. Dog years

seemed strange to me. They still do. As if dogs adhere to their own fast-paced clock whose hands

spin dizzyingly quickly, in more circles than dogs can turn in before napping, circles faster than

the ones dogs make when they chase their tail. Despite the time difference between man and

man’s best friend, somehow dogs are always there for us.

Amigo (“friend” in Spanish) was a Bichon Frise. He also went by “Meegie,” “Meego,” and

“Hey! Get inside! Come on! Where’d you go?! There’s so much snow outside I can’t see him!

God damnit where’s the damn dog?!”

A “circus dog” my mom called him. He wasn’t very spry from what I remember, but apparently

Bichons could be trained to jump through hoops and walk on their hindlegs while wearing tutus.

The most clothing Amigo ever wore was a red knit sweater in the wintertime. Somehow he still

got gravel stains on his belly and salt crystals stuck in the white curly hair that covered his body.

He was never pure white like the dogs that pranced in circles on the dog shows on Animal

Planet.

Winter was when we decided upon his death. It’s not called assisted suicide when it’s for a dog,

because a dog can’t say “I, Dog, give my owner permission to stop my heart before it slows on

its own. My lungs are laboring under the pressure of old age. My doggy ankles are twisted and

swollen under the crushing weight of my fragile bones. My ailing brain forgets what to do once

I’m outside, and my cloudy eyes can’t guide me back to the door. I don’t want you to worry

about watching over me every second of your very long, human days anymore. I am a burden

and I know it. I give my consent to you to let me go. I wish to go to sleep and never force my

grey eyelids open again.”

Amigo didn’t say that with a voice. But he said it with his eyes, his limping gait, his tired sighs,

his weary tail wags. I do remember that. I think, in a way, it was assisted suicide.

Amigo took his last car ride on an overcast day in December. Silver light washed over the snow

as our tires crunched down the long driveway to the vet’s house. The veterinarian we took him to

was a local, large animal vet who was kind enough to only charge us a small fee to do checkups

on our medium-sized dog. I remember the vet always had large hands that looked like they’d be

soft enough to comfort any animal, no matter their size, even when he was injecting them with

needles or putting pills down their throats.

I wonder how much he charged to make Amigo go limp, to fold Amigo’s body into a tight circle

as if he had just lay down for a nap, to fit Amigo into a paper box lined with an old woven

blanket, to close Amigo inside the box, to place the box in our trunk.

My sister and I clutched onto my mother’s coat outside the vet’s house. He lived in a clearing

deep in the woods. My memory shows us as dark specks amidst a thin drift of snow that began

falling from the sky, as if my memory was a person standing twenty feet in front of us, watching

us shiver with sadness and shake with slowly building grief. I didn’t look up at my mother’s

face, because I didn’t want to intrude upon her sadness.

Just before the veterinarian walked out of his house with the box, the fattest, w****st snowflakes

I’ve ever seen began to float down from the sky. They were silent giants. Scary yet comforting. I

imagined they were the soft tears of the clouds. Or perhaps they were the pieces of the clouds

that fell away as Amigo made his way into heaven.

They fell so he could ascend.

Written by one of my family members.

Memory
Amigo’s Snow

I don’t know how old I was when it happened. Does anyone remember how old they are when

something serious occurs? At the time, one’s age has no influence on what’s happening to them

or around them. After the fact, though, everything is affected by one’s age. Especially the

appearance of a memory: The memory’s scratched or impeccable veneer. The memory’s lambent

lighting or its sharp shadows and corner’s, dark and stained as if steeped in tea. Everyone’s

retroactive perception is changed by the depth of one’s naivety.

So... I don’t know how old I was when he died. I know how old he was though: 14 and a half, at

least in “human years.” My mother preferred to name his age in dog years: about 74. Dog years

seemed strange to me. They still do. As if dogs adhere to their own fast-paced clock whose hands

spin dizzyingly quickly, in more circles than dogs can turn in before napping, circles faster than

the ones dogs make when they chase their tail. Despite the time difference between man and

man’s best friend, somehow dogs are always there for us.

Amigo (“friend” in Spanish) was a Bichon Frise. He also went by “Meegie,” “Meego,” and

“Hey! Get inside! Come on! Where’d you go?! There’s so much snow outside I can’t see him!

God damnit where’s the damn dog?!”

A “circus dog” my mom called him. He wasn’t very spry from what I remember, but apparently

Bichons could be trained to jump through hoops and walk on their hindlegs while wearing tutus.

The most clothing Amigo ever wore was a red knit sweater in the wintertime. Somehow he still

got gravel stains on his belly and salt crystals stuck in the white curly hair that covered his body.

He was never pure white like the dogs that pranced in circles on the dog shows on Animal

Planet.

Winter was when we decided upon his death. It’s not called assisted suicide when it’s for a dog,

because a dog can’t say “I, Dog, give my owner permission to stop my heart before it slows on

its own. My lungs are laboring under the pressure of old age. My doggy ankles are twisted and

swollen under the crushing weight of my fragile bones. My ailing brain forgets what to do once

I’m outside, and my cloudy eyes can’t guide me back to the door. I don’t want you to worry

about watching over me every second of your very long, human days anymore. I am a burden

and I know it. I give my consent to you to let me go. I wish to go to sleep and never force my

grey eyelids open again.”

Amigo didn’t say that with a voice. But he said it with his eyes, his limping gait, his tired sighs,

his weary tail wags. I do remember that. I think, in a way, it was assisted suicide.

Amigo took his last car ride on an overcast day in December. Silver light washed over the snow

as our tires crunched down the long driveway to the vet’s house. The veterinarian we took him to

was a local, large animal vet who was kind enough to only charge us a small fee to do checkups

on our medium-sized dog. I remember the vet always had large hands that looked like they’d be

soft enough to comfort any animal, no matter their size, even when he was injecting them with

needles or putting pills down their throats.

I wonder how much he charged to make Amigo go limp, to fold Amigo’s body into a tight circle

as if he had just lay down for a nap, to fit Amigo into a paper box lined with an old woven

blanket, to close Amigo inside the box, to place the box in our trunk.

My sister and I clutched onto my mother’s coat outside the vet’s house. He lived in a clearing

deep in the woods. My memory shows us as dark specks amidst a thin drift of snow that began

falling from the sky, as if my memory was a person standing twenty feet in front of us, watching

us shiver with sadness and shake with slowly building grief. I didn’t look up at my mother’s

face, because I didn’t want to intrude upon her sadness.

Just before the veterinarian walked out of his house with the box, the fattest, w****st snowflakes

I’ve ever seen began to float down from the sky. They were silent giants. Scary yet comforting. I

imagined they were the soft tears of the clouds. Or perhaps they were the pieces of the clouds

that fell away as Amigo made his way into heaven.

They fell so he could ascend.

Written by one of my family members.

Memory
Amigo’s Snow

I don’t know how old I was when it happened. Does anyone remember how old they are when

something serious occurs? At the time, one’s age has no influence on what’s happening to them

or around them. After the fact, though, everything is affected by one’s age. Especially the

appearance of a memory: The memory’s scratched or impeccable veneer. The memory’s lambent

lighting or its sharp shadows and corner’s, dark and stained as if steeped in tea. Everyone’s

retroactive perception is changed by the depth of one’s naivety.

So... I don’t know how old I was when he died. I know how old he was though: 14 and a half, at

least in “human years.” My mother preferred to name his age in dog years: about 74. Dog years

seemed strange to me. They still do. As if dogs adhere to their own fast-paced clock whose hands

spin dizzyingly quickly, in more circles than dogs can turn in before napping, circles faster than

the ones dogs make when they chase their tail. Despite the time difference between man and

man’s best friend, somehow dogs are always there for us.

Amigo (“friend” in Spanish) was a Bichon Frise. He also went by “Meegie,” “Meego,” and

“Hey! Get inside! Come on! Where’d you go?! There’s so much snow outside I can’t see him!

God damnit where’s the damn dog?!”

A “circus dog” my mom called him. He wasn’t very spry from what I remember, but apparently

Bichons could be trained to jump through hoops and walk on their hindlegs while wearing tutus.

The most clothing Amigo ever wore was a red knit sweater in the wintertime. Somehow he still

got gravel stains on his belly and salt crystals stuck in the white curly hair that covered his body.

He was never pure white like the dogs that pranced in circles on the dog shows on Animal

Planet.

Winter was when we decided upon his death. It’s not called assisted suicide when it’s for a dog,

because a dog can’t say “I, Dog, give my owner permission to stop my heart before it slows on

its own. My lungs are laboring under the pressure of old age. My doggy ankles are twisted and

swollen under the crushing weight of my fragile bones. My ailing brain forgets what to do once

I’m outside, and my cloudy eyes can’t guide me back to the door. I don’t want you to worry

about watching over me every second of your very long, human days anymore. I am a burden

and I know it. I give my consent to you to let me go. I wish to go to sleep and never force my

grey eyelids open again.”

Amigo didn’t say that with a voice. But he said it with his eyes, his limping gait, his tired sighs,

his weary tail wags. I do remember that. I think, in a way, it was assisted suicide.

Amigo took his last car ride on an overcast day in December. Silver light washed over the snow

as our tires crunched down the long driveway to the vet’s house. The veterinarian we took him to

was a local, large animal vet who was kind enough to only charge us a small fee to do checkups

on our medium-sized dog. I remember the vet always had large hands that looked like they’d be

soft enough to comfort any animal, no matter their size, even when he was injecting them with

needles or putting pills down their throats.

I wonder how much he charged to make Amigo go limp, to fold Amigo’s body into a tight circle

as if he had just lay down for a nap, to fit Amigo into a paper box lined with an old woven

blanket, to close Amigo inside the box, to place the box in our trunk.

My sister and I clutched onto my mother’s coat outside the vet’s house. He lived in a clearing

deep in the woods. My memory shows us as dark specks amidst a thin drift of snow that began

falling from the sky, as if my memory was a person standing twenty feet in front of us, watching

us shiver with sadness and shake with slowly building grief. I didn’t look up at my mother’s

face, because I didn’t want to intrude upon her sadness.

Just before the veterinarian walked out of his house with the box, the fattest, w****st snowflakes

I’ve ever seen began to float down from the sky. They were silent giants. Scary yet comforting. I

imagined they were the soft tears of the clouds. Or perhaps they were the pieces of the clouds

that fell away as Amigo made his way into heaven.

They fell so he could ascend.

Written by one of my family members.

Memory
Amigo’s Snow

I don’t know how old I was when it happened. Does anyone remember how old they are when

something serious occurs? At the time, one’s age has no influence on what’s happening to them

or around them. After the fact, though, everything is affected by one’s age. Especially the

appearance of a memory: The memory’s scratched or impeccable veneer. The memory’s lambent

lighting or its sharp shadows and corner’s, dark and stained as if steeped in tea. Everyone’s

retroactive perception is changed by the depth of one’s naivety.

So... I don’t know how old I was when he died. I know how old he was though: 14 and a half, at

least in “human years.” My mother preferred to name his age in dog years: about 74. Dog years

seemed strange to me. They still do. As if dogs adhere to their own fast-paced clock whose hands

spin dizzyingly quickly, in more circles than dogs can turn in before napping, circles faster than

the ones dogs make when they chase their tail. Despite the time difference between man and

man’s best friend, somehow dogs are always there for us.

Amigo (“friend” in Spanish) was a Bichon Frise. He also went by “Meegie,” “Meego,” and

“Hey! Get inside! Come on! Where’d you go?! There’s so much snow outside I can’t see him!

God damnit where’s the damn dog?!”

A “circus dog” my mom called him. He wasn’t very spry from what I remember, but apparently

Bichons could be trained to jump through hoops and walk on their hindlegs while wearing tutus.

The most clothing Amigo ever wore was a red knit sweater in the wintertime. Somehow he still

got gravel stains on his belly and salt crystals stuck in the white curly hair that covered his body.

He was never pure white like the dogs that pranced in circles on the dog shows on Animal

Planet.

Winter was when we decided upon his death. It’s not called assisted suicide when it’s for a dog,

because a dog can’t say “I, Dog, give my owner permission to stop my heart before it slows on

its own. My lungs are laboring under the pressure of old age. My doggy ankles are twisted and

swollen under the crushing weight of my fragile bones. My ailing brain forgets what to do once

I’m outside, and my cloudy eyes can’t guide me back to the door. I don’t want you to worry

about watching over me every second of your very long, human days anymore. I am a burden

and I know it. I give my consent to you to let me go. I wish to go to sleep and never force my

grey eyelids open again.”

Amigo didn’t say that with a voice. But he said it with his eyes, his limping gait, his tired sighs,

his weary tail wags. I do remember that. I think, in a way, it was assisted suicide.

Amigo took his last car ride on an overcast day in December. Silver light washed over the snow

as our tires crunched down the long driveway to the vet’s house. The veterinarian we took him to

was a local, large animal vet who was kind enough to only charge us a small fee to do checkups

on our medium-sized dog. I remember the vet always had large hands that looked like they’d be

soft enough to comfort any animal, no matter their size, even when he was injecting them with

needles or putting pills down their throats.

I wonder how much he charged to make Amigo go limp, to fold Amigo’s body into a tight circle

as if he had just lay down for a nap, to fit Amigo into a paper box lined with an old woven

blanket, to close Amigo inside the box, to place the box in our trunk.

My sister and I clutched onto my mother’s coat outside the vet’s house. He lived in a clearing

deep in the woods. My memory shows us as dark specks amidst a thin drift of snow that began

falling from the sky, as if my memory was a person standing twenty feet in front of us, watching

us shiver with sadness and shake with slowly building grief. I didn’t look up at my mother’s

face, because I didn’t want to intrude upon her sadness.

Just before the veterinarian walked out of his house with the box, the fattest, w****st snowflakes

I’ve ever seen began to float down from the sky. They were silent giants. Scary yet comforting. I

imagined they were the soft tears of the clouds. Or perhaps they were the pieces of the clouds

that fell away as Amigo made his way into heaven.

They fell so he could ascend.