My Dog is Dead, Long Live My Dog

The first time I saw Carl was in his fourth week of life, a tiny English Bulldog with paws the size of caramels and a head too fat to squeeze through the bars of the baby crib he struggled to escape. The last time I saw Carl was ten years later on Christmas Eve, when I’d left him wrapped in a blanket on the cold linoleum of the vet’s office. A snub nosed shit-storm come to life as a well muscled bag of wrinkled dog flesh, Carl was the very best of us for an entire decade. He passed four days ago, and the asshole has left

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