The Death of a Pet

I recently lost my first pet. Gus. He was a dog. He still is a dog. He died from swallowing a chew ball, what could be more doggy than that?

He was my first pet as a big kid - as a grown up. I’d chosen him without any help, I’d fed him, I’d walked him and taken him to the beach and paid 15 bucks to have his ears cleaned afterwards. We’d made a home together in Maylands, right near his favourite park and a special part of the river that felt like ours. It was our little piece of prime real estate right near the water. And we fully embraced it. Anyone that came near couldn’t help but be enthused by Gus’ boisterous, overexcited friendship making skills and my unpretentious tracky dacks. We were the perfect couple.

I miss him, a lot.

It’s not the first time I’ve lost a pet though. There was Bimbo the family Chihuahua that got run over by a motorbike, Rosie the Guiea Pig that froze to death one winter night because we forgot to bring her cage inside and ofcourse Kevin Bacon the bush pig that we ate. I’d like to note that I was unaware until after dessert was served.

My family is hopeless when it comes to the death of our pets. Even when we are delightfully in some choc ship icecream for dessert. We love them so dearly.

My parents would welcome any animal with open arms and hearts full of love from their start to their finish, even if it is next to a corn on the cob and side of veggies.

No matter what kind of animal, we will love them. We’ll name them, all of them. And love them.

Even if you’re a chock. Even if you’re a retard. And especially if you are a chook that’s retarded.

Beaky was a special little hen. The kind of chook that wasn’t big enough for eating but big enough to love with all your heart. He got his name because of the way that his beak had formed, or should I say disformed.

The top and bottom parts would avoid coming together. Instead they decided they were attended diiferent parties, like Siamese twins having boyfriend issues. You felt like him like his was an awkard teenager before braes were invented. His beak worked like a bent pair of scissors. And just like a bent pair of scissors, it failed to do it’s job properly.

Beaky was a small chook, mostly on account of not being able to pick up grain from the ground. To combat this Mum would throw him into a bucket full of feed and he would roll around in it like he was trying to put out a fire. He’d throw his head back in scooping and shovelling as much wheat and rye into his throat as chickenly possible. It was like watching Chris Farley rolling around in a tonne full of dirty beef roadhouse sausauges, but with his mouth sewn up.

Beaky was the kinda chook that was allowed to do anything. The other chooks might of laughed at him and ridiculed his inadequencies, but he always had on up on them. Beaky stuck it right up those cocks … (to be continued)