Bianchi Barnes Ginger Junior Good-good-good-good-good was the collective name inflicted by me and my siblings onto the best dog we ever owned. She was a miniature Doberman Pinscher-Dachshund mix and the fiercest most intelligent thing God ever put on four paws standing one-foot-high.
My mother got Bianchi from a co-worker’s litter when I was about nine. Though we never trained her, she was a natural guard dog who attacked any non-family member who entered the house, much to our delight. Our house had been robbed before, and so we took pride in her ability to sense strangers walking across the street no matter where she was in the house: her ears would perk up, her hackles raise and she’d rush to the living room window to growl and stare them down until they left. Good girl.
She’d also poo in the bathroom (as trained), rarely begged for scraps, hardly ever raided the garbage and gave affection to every family member without prejudice. Whenever one of us raised our voices, she’d bark in disapproval; whenever one of us cried, she’d nuzzle us and lick our tears. At night, she often slept nestled between our legs.
So it should be easy to understand why we were all upset when my dad accidentally poisoned her the same way he’d accidentally poisoned the previous dog: spraying insecticide around her food to deter the skittering roaches hiding in our kitchen. For a while I questioned his malice, but even he isn’t that cruel — he just lacked common sense.
For the next couple of weeks, Bianchi Barnes was a changed dog. She still detected strangers crossing the street, but could only drag her now mostly useless back legs behind her while quivering and whimpering from the pain; we loved her best we could though. Per the vet’s orders, I’d feed her a syringe filled with sweet-smelling orange liquid — holding her tightly in a blanket, lifting her lip, sticking the syringe’s nozzle against her clenched teeth and squirting until she ingested every drop. It’s a testament to Bianchi’s bad-assness that just writing about her still saddens me a little.
Shortly after my parents paid for a surgery involving anesthesia, charcoal and her kidneys, I made a deal with God. You see, I was a blossoming, guilt-ridden, Baptist-raised homosexual, slowly becoming aware of the sinful nature of my life-long love of masturbating to pro-wrestling. My Sunday schooling lead me to believe that God might help me if if I stopped abusing myself in this unnatural and immoral way. So I got on my knees and we made a deal: I’d stop spanking it to WWE and He’d* let my dear sweet dog live. I prayed on it and, miraculously, Bianchi got better.
My dead dog is evidence of that deal’s outcome. I held out for about a week, but I was a pre-teen with raging gay hormones. I’d been edging for a long time — thinking that as long as I didn’t cum, it wasn’t a sin — and when I finally came, it was to Captain Lou Albano — one of the least sexy wrestlers in my pre-teen opinion, a guy who resembled someone’s shirtless uncle at a Jimmy Buffett concert. But oh did I cum: I came harder than I’d ever come before — so much goo came out of my penis that I thought I was going to die.
As happens, the sick often get better just before they get worse, and the same happened to Bianchi. My parents didn’t even tell me when they finally put her to sleep, the just waited for me to ask, “Hey, where’s the dog?”
It’s sad, yes, but I made my choice and I stand by it; hallowed be Bianchi’s name, forever and ever… Amen.
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