That grand, terrible bastard of a dog, Bastoche, lost his life last night. He was just under a year old.
There’s nothing anyone could have done – he was on leash, under control, and tried to sneak under a fence. His collar got stuck, he panicked, my sister reached down to unstick him. His struggles loosened his collar and he backed out of it and ran, always the heedless “gay cavalier,” straight out into traffic.
My sister is absolutely devastated.
His life was short, but so well lived. He was the worst dog on earth. He never met a rule he could not break, and he did it with flair. There was not a mean bone in his body; he was horrible but so loving and so brilliant. And he changed the lives of everyone he met. Which is as good an epitaph as any dog could need.
He’s buried up on my parents’ mountain, and will no doubt give lots of heavenly beings a run for their money.