I had been noticing over the last few weeks that Oswald hadn't been eating worth a shit and was stumbling around and looked sick as shit. I took the noble critter to the vet and some fairy bastard diagnosed Oswald and gave me the grim news: my pet had a terrible fuckin disease and that it was in my best interest to put him to sleep. I took it like a stoic Knight and said, "Very well. I'll take him home and bring him back tomorrow."
I explained to Oswald on the ride home (a taxi since my rig was still over on Watt) what the deal was and he looked noble enough to take it like a faithful ferret. So last night, VERY LATE, I got into my home-made Siccness wife-beater I told I made and took Oswald out to the business park and into the woods.
I sat on a tree stump and carved an apple and we shared. Then I took out a whiskey flask and we shared that. I dug a big fuckin hole and placed Oswald into the hole. He didn't even fight or crawl to get out; he just sort of lie down looking sick and drunk.
"Peace be with you, and God rest your soul," I whispered to him.
I stood up with that Patrick Swayze look in Ghost after he sees that jerkoff's ghost rise from the broken window....I looked at Oswald like that for a few seconds and removed my pistol from my belt, put on the potato silencer, and blasted Oswald right in the dome.
I quickly covered the hole with dirt without looking down into the hole at the dead, mutilated ferret. I trembled and marked off the spot where I buried him, and then drank the rest of the whisley and placed it on top of the stone that is the interim gravestone.
There was no way that a ferret that had that much dignity was going to go down in a vet's office. He was going out on his own terms.
RIP Oswald and WAR me being calloused for today when Weight Watchers chick sees my rough, stern grill.
D-Money
I explained to Oswald on the ride home (a taxi since my rig was still over on Watt) what the deal was and he looked noble enough to take it like a faithful ferret. So last night, VERY LATE, I got into my home-made Siccness wife-beater I told I made and took Oswald out to the business park and into the woods.
I sat on a tree stump and carved an apple and we shared. Then I took out a whiskey flask and we shared that. I dug a big fuckin hole and placed Oswald into the hole. He didn't even fight or crawl to get out; he just sort of lie down looking sick and drunk.
"Peace be with you, and God rest your soul," I whispered to him.
I stood up with that Patrick Swayze look in Ghost after he sees that jerkoff's ghost rise from the broken window....I looked at Oswald like that for a few seconds and removed my pistol from my belt, put on the potato silencer, and blasted Oswald right in the dome.
I quickly covered the hole with dirt without looking down into the hole at the dead, mutilated ferret. I trembled and marked off the spot where I buried him, and then drank the rest of the whisley and placed it on top of the stone that is the interim gravestone.
There was no way that a ferret that had that much dignity was going to go down in a vet's office. He was going out on his own terms.
RIP Oswald and WAR me being calloused for today when Weight Watchers chick sees my rough, stern grill.
D-Money
