Total pages in book: 49
Estimated words: 47716 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 239(@200wpm)___ 191(@250wpm)___ 159(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 47716 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 239(@200wpm)___ 191(@250wpm)___ 159(@300wpm)
Anton chuckled. “It’s great how you never fail to remind me why you’re my lawyer.”
“I know,” Ivan said, grinning. Then, the sight faded. “Gia wanted to come over, but I made her stay home with her sisters. If you think her being here might make him happy, give me a call and I’ll bring her.”
Sobering as he looked out to his son again, Anton frowned. “Did he let you help him at all?”
“Nope. Wanted to do it himself. The ground is pretty soft as it’s been raining on and off for a few days, but no doubt he’s exhausted. Not just physically, either. He’s a good kid, Anton. Stubborn as shit, but a really good kid.”
“Yeah,” Anton agreed. “Thanks, by the way.”
Ivan shrugged. “No problem. How’re you feeling?”
“Like somebody killed my fucking dog.” Anton pushed up off the steps, brushing off his pant legs. “I’m going to go get him. The faster this gets done, the quicker my son can get some kind of closure on this damn day.”
“I’ll head out, then. For what it’s worth, I’m sorry, Anton.”
“Yeah, me, too.”
*
Anton squatted down closer to the ground with a bundled up, forever-sleeping Rocco in his arms. The dog was ninety-two pounds before the vet had administered the shot, but now he felt like a feather.
“He looks ...” Demyan trailed off, making a face.
“Like he’s sleeping?” Anton asked quietly.
“Yeah, I guess.” Demyan reached out near the blanket, but snatched his hand back just as quickly. “Should I touch him?”
“If you want. Just remember, he’s not going to feel warm and he won’t move like he usually would when you pet him before. His fur will still feel the same, and his eyes will stay closed. Pet him if you want, Demyan. Go on.”
Hesitantly, Demyan sipped his hand under the blanket, running his fingers through the hair along Rocco’s neck.
“He’s not sick anymore,” Demyan said softly.
“No.”
“And he doesn’t hurt, right?”
“Right,” Anton said.
“I still don’t like it. Because I feel sick—I hurt.”
Anton sighed. “Me, too. Are you ready to say goodbye, then?”
Demyan nodded, but said nothing else. Anton placed his curled up pup into the three foot long, one and a half foot wide hole. It was only a couple of feet deep, but it would do. Demyan had mentioned maybe they could plant more roses, or even a tree to mark Rocco’s final resting place. Anton liked that idea.
Without prompting, Demyan began to fill in the hole. Anton stood back, letting his son do whatever it was he needed to do to feel better about the situation. It wasn’t long before black and tan fur was hidden by dirt. Demyan smoothed out the top of the fresh grave with his hand before wiping the mud off on his jeans.
“I don’t want a puppy,” Demyan said suddenly, turning to look at his father as he stood.
Anton cocked a brow, curious. “Why would you think I’d go get you another dog? Animals like Rocco are not toys, Demyan. You can’t replicate the feelings they made you experience by getting a new one because the old one is gone.”
Demyan shrugged. “I know, so I don’t want one at all.”
Well, then. That’s that.
“I’m tired,” Demyan said, blinking away a wetness from his gaze that wouldn’t seem to leave.
“Yeah, I bet.”
Anton knew his son was ten-years-old and a far cry from a baby. He wasn’t like his sister who needed hugs and cuddles every second of the day she could squeeze them out of someone. Like his father, Demyan wasn’t physically demonstrative with his feelings. He never had been, and it wouldn’t be long before he was stepping into his teenage years, which was liable to leave him even less affectionate. The kid didn’t like it when his father coddled him or fussed over nonsense, so Anton simply didn’t do it.
It was times like now when that was particularly hard on Anton. Especially when he had to stand back and watch his son struggle.
“I’m tired,” Demyan repeated. “And hungry.”
“Want to go see what Ma and Clarissa cooked up for us? We have to get cleaned up, too.”
“Okay, Papa.” Demyan turned back to look at Rocco’s grave. “Do I have to say goodbye?”
Anton canted his head to the side, confused. “Well, not if you don’t want to. Goodbye seems final, Demyan. It’d be appropriate. What do you want to say?”
“Goodnight.”
Like he always told his pup as his day ended, Anton knew. “Okay, that works, too.”
Demyan nodded once.
“Goodnight, Rocco.”
Snapshots
Foreword: Snapshots is a future-take of yet another inevitable situation.
Anton’s movements were robotic as he walked through his home. His thoughts, a jumbled swirl of a mess inside his head, wouldn’t calm enough to let him focus in on just one thing. There was too much—the disbelief, his sadness and worry, a bit of anxiety slipping in with the relief. The need to be closer to his son burrowed deep in his chest, but at the same time, he wondered if he should stay away.