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My hands are fine.

2600_57811777685_5687305_n_thumb By Eddie Wetmore | December 01, 2015 | Comments (0)

We buried Webber Saturday. Kim was very eloquent with her Face Book eulogy; I am afraid I am not feeling so refined. I realize that this is not going to reach anyone whom this would apply to, but I still need to vent, to rage, to scream.

My hands are fine.

About two years ago I was refinishing a table out at dad’s plant: 80k feet, empty building, no lights except where I was in the very back. Then, out of the dark, I distinctly heard the ticking of nails on concrete. Couldn’t see a thing, until about thirty seconds later a graying, 10-ish black lab came wandering out of the darkness, wagging his tail.
No, collar, unneutered, no microchip; Cherylyn from the grocery store about a mile away said that she had seen a tan pickup truck drop him off and drive away. He tried to run after them, but he couldn’t keep up.
He just turned around and sat down, waiting for them to return. They never did. He was sick, you see; they apparently didn’t want to bother to have him checked out. They would have realized that it was a simply urinary tract infection; easily cleared up. He kept waiting.

My hands are fine.

Manager at the grocery-“Cherylyn”-refused to call anyone because she “…didn’t want o get involved.” After several calls to her general manager, her district supervisor, and Food Lion Corporate I damn well made SURE that she got involved.
“Cherylyn” even made the comment that “..at least if he got hit by a car it’d be quick.” Ever see a dog hit by a car, you dribbling shithead? I have a little more than casual acquaintance with this. It is not usually “quick” by any reasonable definition of the word. It usually involves a lot of blood, a lot of agony, a lot of whimpering and crying, dimming eyes pleading for help. Not to mention the damage it does to someone’s bumper-and maybe the people inside. Thankfully he was smart enough to stay out of the thoroughfare. 
But the damage was done: a senior dog near the end of his days had just been tossed like a piece of trash because his piece-of-shit owner’s decided that they were going to drop him off and let him be someone else’s problem. He apparently though he could make it home on his own; he started walking. 

And walking. 

And walking. 

Finally he came in through the open door at the plant-I suspect he was desperately trying to find someone who would be nice to him and help him find his family; obviously it was a mistake that they left him.

My hands are fine.

Next stop: Ed’s front seat. He digs Jimmy Buffet. We ran around for weeks trying to find his owners (we were still under the misguided impression that he had just snuck off during “’bath time”.
Anyway, Webber lived with us along with the rest of the canine cast-offs that we’ve collected for two long fun-filled years: lots of pats and snuggles, no shortage of food, lots of buddies to play with on a regular basis, treats left and right. He got to travel with us, and generally had about as good a time as a dog could.
But time caught up with us-he took sick and three weeks later (and several large unhelpful veterinary invoices) later he was gone. He was with Kim when he passed; I am so glad that he at least had company and didn’t die alone.
But I am still reeling with the concept that some people can be so flippant with the life an animal that has nothing but you. We are their entire world; they spend 90% of their very very short hours on this rock trusting, loving and waiting on people to come home. To praise them, to spend time with them, to treat them like they are-at least for a short time-the center of someone else’s world.
And yet so many clods out their ignore that trust, ignore that devotion, ignore that adoration and just toss them aside when it’s no longer convenient. To turn trust love and devotion into a disposable commodity that has no real value.
And the rest of us upright apes act all surprised and wonder why/how our youth can walk into a school or a movie theater and start putting bullets into people they don’t even know; without even the first concern about the families that they are destroying, the lives they are wrecking, the aftermath of the massacres. 
If you can’t understand loyalty or trust on a small scale then I guess it’s bound to escape you on the big one.

So, once again, we buried a trusting friend that some other asshole dumped without a second thought.

My hands are fine. And I am under a rapidly building blind rage. 

Because they shouldn’t be.

They should be bleeding after digging a 4 foot deep hole into the hard packed ground.

They should be blistered after moving over a cubic yard of dirt and rocks.

They should be bruised and torn from the bare wood shovel handle; no gloves.

They should be battered after moving heavy earth from over a yard down for yet another friend's grave.

But, my hands are just fine. You see, they have toughened up quite a bit over the years.

The human body gets used to ANY task that it has to do repeatedly.

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