Tap called in the morning, “Pete’s dead.”
“Sorry to hear that,” I said.
“Best damned guard dog I’ve ever had.”
“But,” I started to interrupt him.
Pete and I met about five-years before. He’d chased me around my truck, forcing me to retreat inside it until Tap called him off.
“Knock it off, Pete.”
The beast backed away, keeping an eye on me even as Tap came to escort me to safety.
“Guess he doesn’t like me very much,” I said.
“He don’t like anyone,” Tap said.
Eventually, Pete came to accept me, maybe even trust me, allowing me to pet him on his head and back and play with his tail.
Sadness was evident in Tap’s voice, “Found him in his bed, curled up like he was asleep.”
“I’m very sorry, Tap.”
“Be honest with me,” Tap asked, “Is it normal to be sad at the death of a peacock?”
“Yeah, I think it is,” I answered.