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Could I please have a bit of sympathy? My pet rock died. I don't know what happened to him. I had to leave town for a couple of days, and when I came back, he had passed away. It was the first time I'd ever gone anywhere without him. I walked in the front door and called him by name; "Rocky!" But there was no reply. He just. . .just lay there.
I don't know what happened to him; perhaps his esophagi (he had several) extrapolated. Maybe the joy and excitement of seeing me return were just too much for him.
He wasn't one of your fancy pure-bloods; his mother was a nugget, of the Texas nuggets, but his father was just a rolling stone. In fact, he looked a lot like Mick Jagger.
Now, this may seem trivial to you. You're thinking, "Oh, he was 'just a rock.'" But he had been my companion for over twenty years, ever since pet rocks were just another fad. There was something special about Rocky right from the start. Maybe it was the jaunty way he wore his hat, or the way he always had a smile for everyone, even the cruel little boy who skipped him across the lake. Twice. Turned out the kid was nearsighted, and he was trying to skip Rocky over a parking lot.
But Rocky didn't hold a grudge, although it did look suspicious when the cruel little boy came crying home to Momma with a big knot on his head, and no one believed him when he tried to explain how he got it.
So I'll see my little friend at the Rainbow Bridge, either next to it, under it, or part of it.
Editor's note:
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