Jack. He was my grandmother’s second husband. He had a little dog from his first marriage named Whiskers. It was a Schnauzer, or was it a Terrier? The dog was really old and slow, and it wasn’t aware of us or anything.
The first night we were there, the dog let out a huge groan and laid down, and it released a puddle of shit. No, a lake of shit. Jack walked through that lake of shit, got down on his knees, and hugged his dead dog. “Good Whiskers,” he said.
If that isn’t love, I don’t know what is.