Had I known it would be my final day by his side, I might have stroked his coat or kissed his nose a little longer. Yet, the only person who knew that Blackie and I would be separated was the one who planned the entire event.
Seated in the car, my father drove Blackie and me out to a vacant lot that ran alongside an affluent neighborhood. After we parked, my father instructed me to get out and play fetch with my beloved friend. Without delay, I tossed around a twig that Blackie chased after and chewed on until my father unexpectedly yelled, “Be a good girl and throw it as far as you can!” Giggling with excitement, I obeyed his request and pitched it far across the barren field. Once the stick left my hand, my father shouted for me to hurry back to the car. Believing it was all a game, I barreled toward him, smiling from ear to ear. When I reached the vehicle, my father picked me up, tossed me in the backseat, slammed the door shut, hopped behind the steering wheel and sped off down the road.
Confused by the sudden turn of events, I cried out to my father that we had forgotten Blackie and needed to go back for him.
“He’ll be fine. A new family will find him. He’ll have a better home.” He explained.
As a cascade of tears flowed over my pudgy cheeks, I turned and faced the rear window. In the distance I could see Blackie sitting on the side of the road, with the stick at his feet, howling for me. I placed my hands to the glass and whimpered his name. Completely crushed, my mind uncontrollably sobbed, “What could be better than our home?”
Feeling betrayed and used, I wept silently. "I will never be your 'good girl' again. Never."
Barely five years old, my father had made me an accomplice to his heartless crime. Though he tried to explain that our new apartment complex had a strict "No Pets Policy", all I could think about was why the sign couldn't read: No Daddies Allowed?