I'm lazy. I feel guilty when I'm not writing, but I guess not guilty enough to write. Anyway, enough
about me. How are you? Have you missed me?...at least noticed that I was gone?
Today's blog - well, I wrote this because there I was at my cousin Sara's baby shower last month and
Cindy, my other cousin said, "My grandmother was allergic to caffeine so she couldn't eat much
chocolate. She loved chocolate. When I was little she made me promise that if I could catch her as
she was dying, I should put some put some chocolate to her lips. I just want a bite before I die"she
I said, "A Bite Before I Die? Great title!"
About 7 of us decided to write an essay with that title- no particular length or subject. We knew, of
course our stories would be diverse so we couldn't wait to see who wrote what. We gave ourselves a
two week deadline (which works wonders for lazy people like me) and this is what I came up with.
A Bite Before I Die
He took good care of me. I had my own bed, a fenced in yard that often smelled of freshly cut grass,
and the flowers, oh those flowers, the scent of sugar.
I wasn’t allowed sugar. I craved the taste, so the smell had to do. Sometimes when we snuggled, he’d
say, “Give me some sugar, honey.” I’d kiss him sweetly, but I never quite understood how I was supposed to give
him sugar, or anything, actually. He was my man. I was his dog.
When he cooked, the aroma from our kitchen was overwhelming, but I was, “A good boy” and learned not
to jump and beg. My only hand-out would be dropped by mistake, not given on purpose.
Max, the toy poodle next door (I was a Boston Terrier) would tease me, “Pepper, your human doesn't
love you. Mine gives me spaghetti and meatballs right from his dish. Sometimes, he lets me lick his
I’d begin to salivate right there, but I’d cover with, “You bark and bark so your human feeds you
just to shut you up!”
I’d think to myself, I’m a good boy, but where has it gotten me? Kibble and doggie treats! What are
those white things? Marshmallows! Oh, just a bite before I die…
And, then, I got sick. I’d been slowing down for some time, needing to back up and give myself a
running start to get up on the couch.
Soon, I couldn’t reach the top cushion at all. My human had to lift me. I seemed to slip into old age
just as fast as my human could say, “Wanna go for a walk, Old Man?” Now he called me “Old man.”
One night he let me sleep on his bed all night. That had always been forbidden. In the morning, my body
ached like I had run for an hour in the dog park, but I hadn’t. My human kissed
the top of my head and said, “Want a sugar cookie, Pep?” Uh, oh…
this is it. I must dying, I thought.
I tried to communicate that yes, of course, I want a damn sugar cookie! Hadn’t he noticed that I frantically
lick the kitchen floor when he opens the bag?
“Daddy, look at me! What I really want is one of those white
My eyes had already closed for the last time and my doggie soul was hovering above my still body
came back into the room. The last thing he said to me before he realized I was gone, was
“Sorry, Old Man. We
are fresh out of sugar cookies.”
These days I romp around a small apartment,reincarnated as a Beagle. My human is a nice middle-
aged divorcee who drinks a cup of hot chocolate every night. By barking my head off, I’ve trained
her to toss
me three mini white things while she sips.
I’m getting a little tired of those white things, though, and I sure do miss that nice big yard with
the sweet smelling grass and flowers.