Ranger

Ranger was my first pet. I got him around my sixth birthday, I believe. He was a full-blood American Staffordshire terrier. A pit-bull. A GREAT dog.


He was more tan than white, but to describe him, I'd say he was white with a tan vest and tan cowl. His paws, neck, and tip of his tail were white. There was a small tan island on the back of his neck.

Later in life, he had a bald spot in the middle of his tail from wagging it against furniture and such. He was most polite, always being ever so careful when stepping around our toys as we played. Hiding under his end table when someone would say: "Pew!" Poor guy, he was prone to flatulence!


I wasn't with him when he died, despite being inseparable from his side during his sickness. He died of liver failure, from too many table scraps. My sister woke me to tell me he had died at the foot of her bed. It makes sense. He probably wanted to protect her right to the end. And me; he probably didn't want me to suffer through it by his side; thus, he timed it carefully.


I wrapped him in a sheet and carried his still-warm, heavy body outside. My sister and I spent nearly two hours digging through the clay with pick axes to bury him. We ereccted a cross from lumber I nailed together and painted white.


He was replaced by my grandmother, less than tow weeks later, by Nina.