My Dear Balls,
Where did you go?
I woke up one day and you were gone. No note, no warning, nothing. Just…gone.
I can’t believe you left. After all, we’ve been together ever since I can remember. It always felt like we were attached at the hip but, you know, not at the hip because you are my balls. Correction: were my balls.
I keep replaying over and over in my head the last time I saw you. We went to the vet with Mom. The vet and Mom were looking at us and saying what a good boy I was. And that’s all I remember. The next thing I knew, I was waking up from the strangest nap of my life, with the ugliest collar around my neck, and you were gone.
I always thought we had a solid thing going — Righty, Lefty, and me. The Three Musketeers. But now I worry you were unhappy. Perhaps I took you for granted. Did I not lick you enough? Did I lick you too much? Were my gentle nibbles and kisses not enough to make you stay?
I haven’t been the same since you left. I haven’t been urine marking as much, and I seem to have lost a lot of my urge to hump. What’s the point, after all? It’d be like playing ping pong with myself.
Besides, even just seeing the ping pong ball would remind me of you. The likeness is uncanny. Although, if I’m being honest, Balls, everything reminds me of you.
Every time I look down, I think of you. Sometimes I forget you’re gone, and I find myself licking where you used to be, tugging at the strange little pieces of thread you left in your wake. They are the only sign you were ever here. Whenever I pull at them, Mom yells at me to stop. I know she means well — she wants me to move on and just forget about you — but I could never quit you the way you quit us.
I even thought I saw you the other day. I rushed towards you, relieved, elated, not even angry about your inexplicable absence. Alas, it was not you, but a mere doppelgänger, a poor man’s pair.
Every time the wind blows, I think of you. Because you used to love the wind and also because I really feel the cold air rush through my back legs now that you’re gone. As I write this, the breeze blows through me, and I could almost swear you’re here, swaying ever so gently below me. But you’re not here. You’re somewhere else.
I used to think about the future. Our future. One day, God willing, I’ll have children, and I’ll want you to meet them. But how can you meet them if you’re not around? What is it that I’m missing here, Balls? I mean, other than my balls.
You were a part of me. And now I feel un-whole — half the man I was, as if a piece of me is missing. And I have so many questions. Will you ever be my balls again? Will you become someone else’s balls? But mostly — why? Why, Balls?
In fact, the only shred of insane hope I can hold onto is that you didn’t want to leave me, that perhaps you were forcibly taken, or kidnapped, or… but no. How could that be true? It doesn’t make sense. Never mind these musings, my sweet Balls. They would appear to be nothing more than the useless mutterings of a heartbroken, balls-less dog.
The truth is, I must accept that you made choices without me. Despite this, there is one thing I can choose: to forgive you. Yes, Balls, I forgive you. For walking away. For leaving me. For not even having the balls to say a proper goodbye.
And yet — and yet — I forgive you.
So wherever you are, my sweet sac, my perfect pouch, my truest of testes, I hope you are happy and free and that you have everything you ever wanted.
All my love,