It was horrible. I ran up as the driver sped off and cradled his bleeding, gasping, dying form in my arms, and came as close as I can to crying. Strange that I can't even cry in my dreams...

"Buddy!...Oh No! Bud-dy! Oh! Ohhh! No! Oh No! No!!!"

He gasped and twitched, tongue lolling out of his mouth, desperately trying to move his body.

"Oh, buddy. Oh. No. No! I love you buddy." I wailed.

And strangely, Brix began to talk!

"I love you, too." Gasp. Gag. Cough.

Then he died, and I was overwhelmed with sadness. Still, not crying though. I don't even cry at funerals. I think, at some low point, that circuit got burned out. Then again, it could be my constant nightmares when I sleep alone. Maybe both.

So I woke up, did my push-ups and bolted upstairs to find the dog, the beautiful, one-year old, still-thinkin'-he's-a-puppy, 95 pound ball of love that he is.

"How ya' doin', boy? Huh? How ya' doin'? You been a good boy? Huh? Yes. Yes you have. Brix is a good boy. Yes he is. YES HE IS." I babbled, stroking his head and velvety ears.

And I hugged and stroked him, showing love, glad he was still alive. And he got his drool on, and got a little on me. I yelped, "Hey! Goddamit!", but it was okay, and he was sorry, slinking away, head down, until I called him back.

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