I like to look back at the memories of when I was young, living in my modest house in Scotch Plains New Jersey. I like to remember all the times I hung out with my friends playing video games, going to camp together, hanging out around the neighborhood, and just having a good time all around. No matter what I was doing I always thought of it as fun, pure fun. I have a lot of good memories from that time, but I also had some that were bad. Like the time I lost one of my closests friends.

When I was about 9 to 10 years old I had a dog, a small white Bichon Frise, named Frosty. He was cute when he wanted to be, but for the most part he was a grumpy little thing. He would always follow around my mom, never letting her out of his sight, my brothers and I took to calling him a momma’s boy because of this. She was the one person who could pet him and not get growled at, she could pick him up and not get snapped at, the one person he would follow anywhere. That’s not to say that he didn’t show us any love. On occasion he’d let us pick him up, pet him and if we were really lucky, he’d follow us around. But for the most part we were just a chopped liver. Still, through all of his flaws, mainly that of his grumpy attitude, we still loved him unconditionally, he was our dog and nothing would change that… at least, not anytime soon. Or so we thought.

We, even as young kids, knew that death was inevitable in all things, humans and animals alike. However none of us could have handled the suddenness of our dogs demise. One day, when we were coming home from the park our little Frosty decided he wanted to bathe in the warm glow of the sunlight right in the middle of the driveway. My mom was too busy on the phone to even notice… she ran right over him. We got out and found him, spots of his white fur stained red, struggling for breath. We quickly grabbed him, wrapped him in a towel, called for my brothers to help put him in the back seat of our car and rushed over to the vet. We got him there on the brink of death, somehow I knew he wouldn’t make it… but thats not to say that I didn’t hope he would.

I sat there in the waiting room of the vet, curled up in the corner, a river of tears flowing from my eyes. I shunned away others, those that approached me to try and comfort me, telling them to leave me alone. I couldn’t stand to be around anyone at the time. I probably sat there for a good forty minutes just crying, but at the time, it felt like an more than an eternity. At some point the vet approached me, I looked up at him with my red eyes, his lips moved… but I didn’t bother listening, I already knew the words. Those, bland dry words, the sympathy, the offering of his condolences. It was appreciated, but it meant nothing, it wouldn’t bring him back. I was ushered into the operating room to see my dog one last time. I could barely bring myself to look at him, it took all of my strength to do so. I finally built up enough courage and I gave him one final kiss goodbye and we left the vet. I didn’t talk on the way home, and how could I? I had just lost Frosty… and I was cold.