Diesel was my little boy. A Jack Russell with freakishly long legs and a handsome stout body. He stood up so tall and ran in bounds like a rabbit. The strongest back legs he had from jumping up and down the double-story house stairs. His short white and tan hair was so soft; it would brush against my face as I held him close, and I would smile and feel so content, snuggling on the couch while watching telly. He would lay with me and I would scruff the tufts of hair on his little barrel chest, I would tap on the side of it with my palm and listen to the solid sound it made while he stared up at me with his tongue hanging out of his mouth. Scratching behind his ear would lead to my squeals as his sloppy tongue would lick me. I hated the feeling but knew they were his kisses. I loved blowing puffs of air in his face and laughing at his confused face as he tried to chew the strange breeze. He would run up and down the carpeted halls and I would catch him and tickle him and his legs would flail in the air. So long were those legs. Sometimes they would keep flailing like a turtle and he would struggle to turn over. At night he would jump up on the bed and I would curl him into my tummy. As he relaxed and fell asleep, I knew he needed me – his mummy – he is safe here in my arms. I needed to know that too – needed to know he was in my arms; his safeness was what allowed me to sleep too.
Now, whether I sleep or wake, he is in my heart.
I miss him, my little boy, my pet named Diesel.