Tribute to Bogey

Dad named you Bogart after the late great Humphrey Bogart.
He held his cigarettes funny and had a perpetual sneer.
You had paws without opposable thumbs and liked to
lick your nose and balls.

You were black and slim with a soft coat without sheen.
You had grays here and there and a waggedywagwag tail.
Dad used to dress you in bandana scarves and now whenever
I see Anarchists do the same thing, I think of you.

When you started shitting all over the house, Dad was
flustered with your incontinence and thought it best to
put you down. Not for shitting all over the house, but because
you were old and physically dying. 17. Jesus Christ, Bogey.

It was hard for him because he bought you as a puppy and
didn't want euthanasia to enter the picture, but he hated seeing
you suffer more. And there was shit all over the house.
So I came home after school and he told me.

It was hard for me because you were my first death.
You were my first death and I cried a lot. I was going to miss you
but I don't remember actively loving you. "Paved Paradise"
is right, Joni Mitchell. I loved you more when you left.

I wanted to apologize for that. Apologize for petting you
when you came near and rarely else. I'm sure I loved you,
but I can't remember, and don't we only remember the most
imporant things in our lives? Weren't you important to me?

I wanted to apologize for hitting your back with a baseball bat.
You were whatever and I was 6, and Dad videotaped it and barely
yelled at me, and I insincerely apologized on camera as you
yelped your quick "get away from me, dick."

We love __you.
_____-d.