One day, my dad told me he’d heard of this dog that needed a home. He said we might look into picking him up.
Turns out, we did. We named the dog “Diego,” after San Diego.
He became my dog. I fed him and took care of him as part of my morning chores. He lived outside all the time, so I’d go out there to feed him in the cold and all that. We had a fenced in backyard, which made for a nice, easy place for him to stay.
Until one day, he got out. I guess he’d escaped a few times before. But this time as my mom brought him back, he bit her. It was kind of a big deal. She visited the doctor to check for rabies and everything.
After that, she didn’t want to keep Diego. I don’t remember the timing specifically, but it happened shortly after my brother, William, was born. She didn’t want anything like that to happen to him.
So, after talking it over with my dad, they decided they needed to get rid of him. I don’t remember where he went or who ended up getting him. I think someone at Sam’s Club saw him in the car and asked my dad about him, and that’s how we ended up finding Diego a new home.
But he was my dog, the first pet I can remember having. I remember my dad asking if I wanted to go out to the station wagon to say goodbye to him. I said no. I just stayed inside. I never said goodbye.
I just cried. Even years later, I remember waking up at night and missing him or thinking about him while trying to get to sleep.
That’s the fourth phase.
