D is for…

D is for Dogs. I have long been an affirmed dog person. I like cats (spelled “anktd” in Beccanese) well enough, but they could never fill the same role to me. As a child I had a black-grey poodle mix named Pepsi (interesting, since I ended up eventually working for Coca-Cola). We had to give him to my grandmother before I got to high school, and from that point on I didn’t have another dog at home until moving here to Colorado. When I got here, the first living creature to meet me at the door was Rusty, an auburn-maned golden retriever who had been passed to my (now ex-, then soon-to-be-) wife when her father died. He was sweet, if not the smartest; however, he wasn’t so good at retrieving anything.

After getting married, my wife’s ex adopted a shelter dog, but soon found he couldn’t take adequate care of her. So she came to us, and we renamed her Ginger, though she didn’t have a speck of red in her hair. She was a spaniel mix, and old; we didn’t realize nearly how old until we took her to the vet. She was at least 10, and would live on another seven years, despite living with epilepsy and a tumor on her side that continued to grow bigger, harder, and heavier. The vet said that her epilepsy made it far too risky to put her under to operate, so as long as it didn’t appear to be hurting her, we could let her be, because she was obviously a happy dog. She wasn’t frisky by any means, but she had a resilience and air about her that I couldn’t help but be enamored by; she was a lady. She simply did not suffer fools, and could give you the dirtiest looks I’ve ever seen from a dog; yet she was incredibly patient when you were bathing, shaving, or grooming her. She happily took her phenobarbital pill in a chunk of hot dog every morning. I loved that dog like I don’t think I ever quite could another. Though she was already aged before ever meeting us, she bonded firmly with our family and especially me. We lived in fear that a seizure was going to kill her; one day she had one that triggered a stroke, and with the knowledge it was likely to happen again soon,  we brought her in to be put down. I held her there, talking to her, feeling her last breath drawn and final heartbeat. It was my first moment like that in my life and I would be fine if it were my last, but I would never change my mind about being there.

In 2004, with both dogs with us, we got a new bichon frise puppy; in honor of the texture of her curly white hair, she was named Cotton. In her young days, she was prone to the hyper episodes known as the “bichon blitz.” She was not nearly so patient with grooming, and simply would not permit the traditional “poofy” bichon haircut. In the wake of marital separation, with Ginger gone, she seemed to attach more to me, and I took her with me when we went our separate ways; but as described in my “A is for…” post, I had to give up custody of her at the end of the year. I haven’t been able to bear going to see her at my former mother-in-law’s house since, though I’m glad to be told how happy she is.

In two months I will live with two more dogs, not my own, but I think I will get along well enough with them…