by Travis Flatt
My dog, Hero, is double dead.
Shortly after my nephew’s parents leave for their anniversary dinner, Parker comes to me brandishing Hero’s empty food bowl, demanding why I haven’t fed her, that she must have now (double) died of starvation.
Those first few minutes of drop-off were rough; the news of Hero’s death was delivered to Parker as he ran around, eager to pet and scritch Hero. My sister-in-law and I chased him, asking him to listen. My brother, oblivious, described the guitar he’d just bought.
We caught Parker in my living room. I tried to explain that Hero died last week, gave up, and turned it over to my sister-in-law. Turns out “went to heaven” is their euphemism. Continue reading
