Roxy Snow 003
I’m a man of science without a superstitious bone in my body. But anecdotal evidence is hard to ignore. I submit for your consideration that my dog is a harbinger of death. Roxy is the sweetest and most well behaved old mutt you could ask for. She doesn’t bark, beg, chew, or have accidents. She doesn’t tug on the leash when you walk her or jump on you. All she needs to be content is to be near you. Yet you would be justified to fear her.

Her presence under your roof is the sweet clarion call of the Grim Reaper. Consider this. My family comes from robust, healthy stock. Then my brother picked Roxy out of the litter, cared for her and trained her as a pet for my mother. He died of cancer and her care went to my mother. Mom died of heart disease. Then Roxy became my father’s companion. He died of lung disease. I stepped up and adopted the old girl to keep her in the family. In less than a year I was diagnosed with diabetes. And shortly after that my wife developed a brain tumor.

To date, my wife and I are still kicking and Roxy lies nearby, content with the world. But I’m keeping my eye on her and dare not run out of snacks.


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