Her turn at banking arrived, she observes|
the teller’s name is Butch. “I had
a Butch once. I loved him so. It’s absurd,
but even now thoughts of him make me sad,
and it’s been twenty years since he was killed
by a speeding drunken driver hitting him
crossing the street. Grim images of his stilled,
bloodied body lying there still nightly swim
through my dreams. It seems I can’t quit grieving,
for Butch devoted his life to me for fifteen years,
giving me unwavering love, always protecting
and comforting me. At night I slept without fears,
Butch sleeping beside me, keeping me safe, secure.
He was the best...” Tears flow, words go unheard.
The teller, “He sounds like a great husband, for sure.”
“Butch was no husband. He was a German Shepard!”