Erik Vincellette’s Hellfire Pit
Whitey was one of the most temperate, savvy, and intelligent companions I have had the pleasure of spending time with. He was white; his name would cause you to assume as much, but that’s not why the name Whitey was given to him.
Have you ever heard of Whitey Bulger? (Editors Note: We shall soon discover his notorious namesake with a simple Google search.) For reasons unknown to me, he was named after him.
I should know why he was named that way. He was my beloved pet, after all.
I didn’t acquire Whitey as a pup. I had a mutual friend who’d been looking for a new home for her dog. I’d recently gone through a nasty breakup. To say I was lonely is an understatement. I desired a loyal partner, a dearest friend. I instantly pulled the trigger and asked if I could take him home. His “master” at the time, a young woman, suggested we meet each other and adopt him if we got along well.
Like twin flames connecting, we instantly clicked! Those beady eyes, his bear-sized paws, his tongue as rough as sandpaper, his tail spinning like a propeller. A God in fur, my anchor for all which life unraveled.
The phrase “a man’s best friend is his dog” is a cliché undoubtedly true.
I’d get a peculiar look when I associate hell and fire with Whitey. Everyone knew he was a sweetheart; however, few saw that instinctual, alert state he portrayed towards specific individuals. Whitey was additionally an emotional support animal. He carried himself with a certain grace, nearly angelic. Controversial to hellfire, trust me, I know! I obtained his card and documents.
An exceptionally devoted watchdog. Whitey possessed heightened intuitiveness, sensing if someone implied good or bad. He’d waggle his unbefitting stubbled tail and yelp if their intents were pure. However, if their intentions were wicked, He’d emit a curdling territorial growl. His complexion swiftly altered from friendly to stern.
He was reminiscent of “Cujo” whenever he acted as such. He’d stand taller, declaring he was not to be trifled with. I didn’t require protection; if anything, I’d taken a bullet for my boy.
A canine that weighed sixty pounds at the time but felt more like two hundred; he was solid, iron muscle. I admired his display of toughness. The length he’d go to protect me from someone he didn’t know. He was fiercely loyal to his loved ones. Nonetheless, he had the warmth of an everlasting hearth.
Whitey had comforting dewy-brown eyes, the shade of acorns, bright enough to shine in the darkest shadows. You could glimpse the sclera in his eyes whenever he switched his gaze. I described them as “The darkest nights,” and in the center, the brightest “star shines” that shine shows your true light, who you really are. He had a beautiful face; his soul’s warmth burned like eternal fire. This face made it nearly impossible to get mad at him!
His pristine white fur glistened like white snow, smooth as silk. The scent he conveyed played chords on my heart like a sweet lullaby. He had the presence of an oversized marshmallow. His bull-head would clumsily wander into my legs, rendering me nearly tumbling over. He loved to yelp; I own hundreds of videos where he appears to be whining at me. He seldomly barked, merely when needed. Quite an entertaining lad, I could have the worse day, come home, and see his cheerful, loveable face; instantly, I felt peaceful. He made life bearable, and I cherished him for that.
My dearest Whitey, As I write this, I think of you in a steady rhythm of love, an everlasting hope that you are joyful where you are.
