My Son's Dog.
A couple of years ago I got my son, who was six at the time, a dog. I’d read something about children who get brought up with pets being less prone to allergies and so on as they get older, and also thought it might be good for him to learn about how to treat animals properly and so on. Anyway, I got the dog from a rescue home. They told me it would be perfect as a child’s first pet, as it was a truly gorgeous border collie that was only three years old with a wonderful temperament and had been well kept and looked after by it’s previous owner, an elderly lady who had sadly passed away.

Obviously, my child loved the dog, as did the dog him. He named it, and with me in tow he’d take it for endless walks, which the dog adored, would let it sleep on his bed and rushed to hug it when coming home from school BEFORE he paid any attention to his mother and me. I was a happy man, as I thought my various plans were all working well. Then it all started to go wrong.

This gorgeous, soft, friendly, playful animal I had brought into our home slowly started to turn. It wasn’t particularly noticeable for the first couple of weeks; the dog just wasn’t as friendly and playful as he had used to be. He spent more and more time in front of the fire, not wanting to go for walks and ignoring my child’s attempts to cajole him into rushing around the house, damaging furniture. Over time, his behaviour got steadily worse. He would growl at me and my wife, do his business all over the house, rush around like a lunatic and then collapse in front of the fire and not move for several hours. Interestingly, he was still very affectionate towards my son, didn’t growl or bite at him, which still makes me kind of happy.

Anyway, after a particularly unpleasant episode, in which he gave me several large puncture marks on my forearm, I decided he had to go to the vet. I took him along, waited patiently and was told to leave him in overnight to let the vet do some tests. When I returned the following day, the vet had some bad news: This beautiful animal, which my son adored, had contracted an aggressive form of cancer that had raged through his body, corrupting everything it touched. The cancer had spread to his brain which, the vet said, explained his erratic behaviour, and he would have to be put down. Nothing could be done. I told the vet to do what was necessary, and shed a few tears as his leg was shaved and the needle gently inserted. The gorgeous border collie died with me stroking his head and whispering into his ear.

The vet then asked me if I wished to take the body with me, or if I’d prefer for them to dispose of it at the practice. I obviously chose the former, telling the vet that my son adored the animal and that I felt it would be best to bury the dog in the back garden and explain what had happened. This was the first problem.

The vet explained that I couldn’t bury my dog in my garden, as my local council had passed a law requiring all animals being buried to be placed in a pet cemetery. The vet gave me some leaflets, and I went home.

I looked over the leaflets. The prices for the cemeteries were all rather expensive, and the vet’s treatment had already cost me most of my expendable income. Anyway, my son came home, and I explained to him about his dog, that he had been very sick and not himself any more. There were many tears, and I explained that I thought he would like to bury him in the garden as a last goodbye. Bollocks to the council I thought, no-one will mind.
‘No,’ my son said. ‘I want to give him a funeral like the Lord of the Rings.’ I thought for a minute, and then realised he meant the pyre scene where that bloke who’s alive nearly gets burnt. I was puzzled, by son was adamant. Only cremation was good enough for HIS dog.
So, I built a pyre, placed the cold, dead animal (carefully wrapped in an old sheet) on top, and took my son outside to say one final goodbye.

The pyre caught, and the wood began to burn. The flames licked ever higher, and I held my son tightly as he emitted small sobs. Then, there was a wailing of sirens and lots of shouting. Two men burst through my side door, carrying a large hose. They doused the flames, sending the slightly smoking corpse flying, whilst my son looked on in horror. I was then given an almighty dressing down by the chief fire officer, about the dangers of unsupervised fires in my back garden (apparently me watching it didn’t count) and also about the illegality of cremating animals without a permit. I was lucky, he concluded, that the police hadn’t been called and myself arrested.

Furious, I rang my council and explained the situation to them. I asked them what I could do with the body, as I wanted my son to be able to say goodbye, and explained the various problems I’d had so far. The person on the end of the line explained that the only option available to me that was permitted, seeing as I couldn’t afford the pet cemetery, was to leave the dog out for the binmen. I was staggered, but warned that attempting anything else would almost certainly land me in trouble.
So, it came to pass that myself and my son were stood outside the house and half-six one cold Tuesday morning in November, waiting for the binmen to arrive and give my son’s beloved pet a ‘funeral.’ They arrived, picked up the body, and began to walk with it towards the truck. My son was crying, almost uncontrollably. Sobs shook his small frame. It wasn’t the way he’d imagined his friend and companion going, at the bitter end.
The body was unceremoniously thrown into the crusher and my son began crying even more. It was the saddest sound I’ve ever heard, the pure, undiluted grief of a small boy, totally unused to death, seeing his beloved pet treated in such a callous manner. The crusher began to activate, and the sheet covered corpse began to slide out of view. My son, inbetween his pitiful sobs, managed some simple words:

‘Goodbye, Political Correctness. I wish you hadn’t gone mad and had to go to sleep.’

Why he called the dog that, I’ll never know.
(spangledonkey I've got a mouse. His name is Gerald., Sat 24 Nov 2007, 11:34, 11 replies)

Wehere do I send the bill for my new keyboard?
This one's full of tea.

That story is utter, utter genius and deserves to win.

*clicks*
(Wascally Weasel now with 100% fewer jokes., Sat 24 Nov 2007, 11:44, closed)

That story
Is full to the brim of brilliance!
(The Spelling Police, Sat 24 Nov 2007, 13:25, closed)

What a tale!
*clicks*
( The Helpful Bear, Sat 24 Nov 2007, 17:59, closed)

hahaha
fantastic!
( baw__bag contains traces of nuts on, Sat 24 Nov 2007, 18:09, closed)

eh?
im confused is that story real or not?
(cactus fantastico is fantastic....o, Sun 25 Nov 2007, 0:02, closed)

I wonder if that law applies to already-dead animals bought as food?
Say you bury the inedible bits of a chicken carcass so as to be food for your roses, or something.
( Bob Todd whee, Sun 25 Nov 2007, 11:06, closed)

Marvellous
and I never saw it coming too. You're the new M. Night Shyalamamananan *clicks*
( chart cat has an itch, Mon 26 Nov 2007, 13:30, closed)

I experienced every emotion while I read that!

(Professor Kenny Martin Hmm? What?, Mon 26 Nov 2007, 20:42, closed)

Fastastaballistic
and Terrifipulous at that!
( rjmrjm, Mon 26 Nov 2007, 22:00, closed)

You sir
are a fucking marvel....bravo!!!!
(puggs, Tue 27 Nov 2007, 13:47, closed)

All of the above
BUT......... you're a BASTARD!

I was nearly crying, you cunt! (Great stuff, hope to see plenty more)
(Greencloud Wanted to go fishing on, Tue 27 Nov 2007, 14:21, closed)