July 1, 2011
When I first met him, I didn’t know at first what he was. He was the size of a rat running across the apartment quad, tiny tongue flapping out the side of his open mouth. When I got up close, I could see he was a little puppy… a happy dog.
Inside our apartment, I used to get down on my hands and knees and dangle my long hair over him; he played and nipped at it.
He was so proud to climb up the stairs; he just didn’t know how to get down. Even when he learned how, he would always be timid and cautious doing so.
When I fell asleep on the couch he would curl up on my neck just behind my ear and stay there until I got up. In bed, he slept right up against my side… a hot little coal.
Over 17 years, our lives were indelibly stained by his presence. He greeted us when we came home and he helped us garden and with chores around the house. He was our companion on the couch when we watched TV and he was our companion when we slept.
He was our constant companion.
Winter was coming. His aging and arthritic body wasn’t going to make it through. As our family vet administered what was to be his final sleep, I could see he was a little puppy… a happy dog.
