When I was a kid, I had a dog named Toost Taffy. He was already with me since I was in grade 3. His colour is a bit bizarre, an orange dog with a slit of white on his face, middle of it, thus creating a division. He was a snob, if any, an expression of contempt was always printed on his face.
On normal days, he doesn’t like going out — though he could. He prefer the life of domestication. But once or twice or more than that, he disappeared.
There was this female dog in the neighbourhood. That he liked, I presume. And I, literally, had to fetch Taffy every morning because he, literally, spent his every night at the place of the female dog, Ram. He was… yes, romantic in a way. He passed away when I was in third year high school.
I cried a lot.
After him, I had other dogs — Bakuz, Near, Light and Attorney. I was fond of them, yes, but the degree wasn’t the same as the degree of fondness I have for Taffy. Some memories are just that powerful they could turn everything into a state of poor substitutes.