Alack! Alack! It is with great sorrow I must announce mine truest donkey hath passed into the angels’ realm while traversing that treacherous expanse, Collegiate Avenue.
Alas, poor Bartholomew! For many years he hath been mine dearest companion and closest confidante, far surpassing my wretched wife Dorothea. His gentle brays and unfailing nature hath brought my heart much joy on the darkest of days. When came the bitter famine of ‘19, my horrid missus (curse her!) suggested that we kill Bartholomew for his meat, as our seventeen children were struggling mightily against the cold and our youngest was at death’s door. I elected to boil mine leather shoes for to eat instead of sacrificing my bosom friend. I always liked him more than that dratted Mattias (may God keep his soul) anyway.
But our friendship is at its end, and that foul College Avenue is to blame!
I knew–I knew–that I should not have loaded Bartholomew so heavy. His steps had grown less sure of late, and his exquisite leg muscles had begun to soften into sweet senescence. But Bartholomew so resented when I made concessions to his age, and often expressed his displeasure via strong kicks aimed at my least favorite children. And so I allowed my noble friend to carry mine backpack containing not one but three hydroflasks (for mine daily servings of water, mead, and gruel), mine Razer laptop (Exceedingly Bricklike Model, now with 50% more brick), and a flintlock pistol I like to keep on mine person in case I am accosted by bandits.
Forgive me, Bartholomew, I should have known!
But still we set out on that ill fated journey, not knowing it would be our last as two souls both on this Earth. Bartholomew took his burden uncomplainingly, as he always did. Although I knew the gravel must have been torment on his aging hooves, never once did he falter or bray aloud. However, as the journey continued his pace began to flag. “Easy, good fellow; soon we shall reach that most promised of promised lands, Oishii Bowl!” I soothed him. But at this acknowledgement of his weakness he redoubled his speed and set down College Avenue at a blazing clip.
‘Bartholomew, mind thine direction!” I yelled, but it was too late. No sooner had I opened my mouth than Bartholomew collided with a tremendous bulldozer! My poor steed may yet have survived, but the impact threw him bodily into one of the numerous open pits lining College Ave! And Bartholomew may yet have survived this, but one of the concrete mixers began unloading its treasured slurry onto him, encasing him in concrete forevermore! And Bartholomew may yet have survived this as well, but one of the construction workers dropped their cigarette onto the cement pool–and he should know donkeys are susceptible to lung cancer! Fie, fie on College Avenue construction!
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