Page 19 of Painting Her Fate

“I’m okay, buddy.” I pat his head and scratch his jowls then he’s quick to rest in my lap. Mind you, my dog is not lap sized, he’s a big lug.

I welcome him in.

Four thirty in the morning according to the bedside clock; two and a half hours of sleep is not going to make for a good day, I can already tell.

How much more of this can one man take?

It’s day seven and exhaustion is far past set in. Even my dog sleeps elsewhere, not wanting to share a bed with miserable me. Hell, my employees are feeling the effects too, something I promised would never happen.

Marines never go back on a promise. This Marine though, seems to do nothing but.

Ever since Ford and I fixed the toilet in the lady’s bathroom last week

I’ve been in a state of torture, in yet too damn stubborn to fix myself.

*Defeat* I know, I should call my doctor; I’ve already been read the riot act.

The pain meds barely mask the ache anymore, and over my dead body

am I going to the hospital.

Yeah, I’ve been told I’mpig-headed. Rather be pig-headed than abitch.

These past few months I’ve neglected going to my physical therapy appointments and just about anything dealing with the V.A.

I won’t start on that whole debacle. What a fucking mess.

My bar business consumes most of my time and you never know what might go wrong, and trust me, shit goes wrong more than you want it to. Some days I just want to throw my hands up and say, ‘fuck this, I’m done!’ Most days though I’ve gotta hand it to my awesome crew and my supportive family who help keep me in line. This man wouldn’t be here without their support.

Wouldn’t be here period.

Memories now dowsed to a mere smolder, never to be fully extinguished, I decide to ready for a run, my feet smacking pavement usually lending me a mental reprieve. Once dressed in shorts and a lightweight hoodie, we head downstairs, Hank’s excited footfalls racing down the staircase as we go.

Hank, my small chestnut Pitbull has this constant happy-go-lucky tongue wagging grin, these big pointy ears, and this energetic rebellious attitude all the time; he’s my best bud- I’m lucky to have him and don’t know what I’d do without him.

Only Hank knows my secrets, and who is he telling?

Out of all the dogs in the shelter that day he was the one that chose me. We bonded by playing fetch and learning simple commands, things that staff members were having a challenging time getting him to do. Just a headstrong dog with a pig-headed owner. Match made right there.

Hank has since been to obedience school, is smart as a whip, enjoys showing off and acting silly, and could play fetch all day if you throw the ball- but good luck getting him to stop- once he starts, there is no off switch; you have now committed your life to this. He may be on the small side for his breed, but he can still plow into you and knock you down. Then, watch out; Hank will happily lick you to death if you give him the chance. I couldn’t see any other dog being by my side.

This one night, a few weeks after bringing him home, I found just how destructive my pup can become, and oh fuck was it messy.

Ford lives with me in my basement so I can keep an eye on him, but I

do enjoy the asshole’s company too. That night however, he was out at the gym blowing off some steam, leaving Hank by himself.

A pup -home alone- all day. What a mistake that was.

After coming home from a long day at the bar all I wanted to do was crack open a beer, stretch out on the too plushy sofa, and watch Buffalo kick some Houston ass. When I entered inside the pitch-black house and no pup was there to greet me, I knew something was up. Oh, was it ever.

That couch I wanted to sink into, yeah, Hank had that torn-to-shreds; springs and wooden framing were exposed, and tuffs of cottony fluff were strewn everywhere.All over the fucking house. Every level, every room, and yes, even in the toilets. We were finding fluff in random places for weeks. Apparently, Hank wanted to help me finally get rid of the last thing that had me holding onto my ex-fiancé.

I couldn’t be mad at him for that, I hated that damn couch and all its symbolism.

After that incident, I asked my little brother Blake if he could help me take care of the pup. Not able to have a dog of his own, his excitement held no bounds when meeting Hank for the first time. Don’t let the teenager fool you though- I pay him well for it. Hey, the kid is going to college this fall.At least he isn’t enlisting.

Once Hank is harnessed, he runs to the door, circles five times, then sits, his butt wiggling frantically as he whimpers for me to hurry up.

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