His name was Magorducha and he was the sweetest. When he was a fluffly little puppy, he used to sleep against my front door every day and I'd have to warn him to get out of the way when I needed to go out. Actually, he still did that occasionally when he was full grown, mainly in the evenings, I think just to let me know he was there to protect me.
No one loved this dog like I did. He was my baby.
I can't help but feel guilty, because I wasn't there in his final moments. It breaks my heart to think that he crawled into the house in his final moments and didn't find me.
Life goes on, everywhere, and that's a hard fact to face. But in my mind I'll always see him running up to greet me whenever I came home, digging holes in the quintal, chasing chickens, sneakily following me to work, trying to come into the house when it rained, pulling my trash out of the trash pit, all the things that made him happy (and usually annoyed me). He was such a huge part of my life in Chicumbane, and I'll always love him for that.
I hope you're in doggy heaven, Magorducha, where you won't need to settle for maggoty goat parts anymore, and you can chase all the chickens you want. You deserve it.
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