The Day I Lost My Best Friend
Every time I stroll over the old wooden bridge to cross Clover Creek it brings back memories of the summer I lost my best friend. I was a bit younger then, and he had been there all my life, hunting, fishing and messing around in the woods. At first I blamed myself; if only I we had watched him closely, he wouldn’t have wandered away.
He was killed by a hit and run driver who came barreling down the old country road, and I guess didn’t have control of his car as it careened across the gravel. The driver’s horn blared right before the accident. I called out a warning to my friend, but he didn’t attempt to move. He turned to look at me, his floppy ears swinging as his head swung my direction. Duke had a sparkle in his brown eyes and a dead possum clutched in his teeth.
“NO! Duke!” I screamed as his body flew through the air and into the cornfield next to the road. The car made no effort to stop and continued on, quickly disappearing in a thick could of dust. I raced to him, tears streaming down my face, but it was too late.
Old Duke enjoyed sniffing out the occasional dead animal, and he never passed up the chance to chew on a dead possum or squirrel, especially one easy to catch - dead. He was the best friend a man could ever have. I’ll never forget our adventures and the way he sloppily licked my face while we lay together in the grass, resting after a long day. It has been around 10 years ago now, but that surreal memory will stay with me forever.