In early December of 2008, my mother brought home a black and white pitbull puppy. Apparently someone left him abandoned underneath a truck. He was small, sickly, and malnourished. He did little more than sleep.
At the time, I was still living at my parents’ house and, like I tend to do, I mothered this little guy. Because of that I had the honor of naming him, and so I named him Oliver.
Oliver also formed a strong bond with my mother’s other dog, Sadie Belle.
After a few weeks, Oliver became more energetic and rambunctious. And pudgy. Like a puppy should be.
He grew up and I? I, unfortunately, moved away.
Over the last summer, however, I got a distress call from my mother. Apparently, Oliver was out of control. She just didn’t know how to handle him. He had too much energy, and needed too much of her time. So I took him in over the summer. I took him on walks, gave him lots of lovin’ and taught him some doggy manners. His behavior improved tremendously.
At the end of summer? I had to give him back to my mother. This was due to circumstances out of my control. Still, I was fortunate enough to be able to come visit him whenever I pleased. It was clear he still saw me as his mommy. x3
But now, something else has happened. My parents are moving out of their house, and they have chosen not to pay the pet deposits for two of their three animals. This means they are getting rid of Juliet…
…And Oliver…
They’re giving Juliet to my stepbrother, and they’re taking Oliver to the SPCA no-kill shelter.
:(
I wish I could take him, but my landlord says ABSOLUTELY NO. Their insurance policy expressly forbids pitbulls.
So I spent the night at my parent’s house last night and cuddled on the couch with my dear friend Oliver. I came to say goodbye.
Goodbye, Oliver. Goodbye.
