By Nathan Gross
The first time my dog Ginger-Blue had a fit, the cat died. They were pretty close so maybe it would’ve been a normal reaction, except Ginger-Blue, she’d thrashed around epileptically before the cat died.
When my parents planned an unexpected visit Ginger-Blue flipped out two days in advance.
When the sausages were off, Ginger-Blue had a fit before I even opened the fridge.
By the time she threw two fits before the bounce of the Richmond-Carlton AFL final, I didn’t even turn the telly on. I could see what was happening. Ginger-Blue was articulating her ESP of bad omens through her epileptic fits.
So from history I could tell this was a big one. As she shuddered through her third fit for the day I was flicking through the news but no bushfires, wild storms or chemical spills were heading our way. Footy season was over and my parents were home with the flu. Whatever she was predicting was bigger than that. End-of-the-world big. A comet strike. A tsunami. The Zombie Apocalypse. Then I felt it.
A heavy left arm.
A tightening in my chest.
My heart’s final pump.
I love you too, Ginger-Blue.