I don't even like dogs. Hate the barking, hate the smell, hate the neediness and all those little hairs.
But this guy was a good one.
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| This was my favorite of all his hats |
He was ten thousand in dog years, and if you clipped off all his warts & skin tags you'd have both hands full, not even counting the thing on his leg that looks like a testicle
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| Thusly |
and the nearly-matching one he had removed from his nub-of-a-tail back when we dared anesthetize him.
I say nearly-matching; it was about three sizes bigger and tufted with little clumps of hair. Entirely cosmetic, say the vets. (Boxers are tumor factories from age three onwards, say the vets, off the record)
I had it in a jar for the longest time...But I digress.
He was not too bright, or handsome, but I liked him. He was a gentleman who stayed out of the kitchen except to wash dishes, and blithely tolerated the endless stream of foster puppies & cats I used to bring. When he was happy, which was nearly always, he'd bend himself in half, showing butt and face together as if for comparison, then turn & repeat. He boxed, he danced. He thought he might be a lapdog. I'm glad he was around for Thanksgiving and Christmas leftovers, and was too deaf to be unsettled by the New Year's fireworks.
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| a decent sort |
He was old and falling apart, and I miss him already.
He didn't come back from his 2nd stroke as well as he did the first one, but we wove our routines around his new self. The steroid-induced floods of pee were like tides that rushed him outside, but only out the back door because the step down wasn't as much. And only in through the front door, because that's how he'd always done it. His old recliner became unclimbable to him, then his cushion from the old couch started to roll him across the floor when he stepped on its spongy surface, so he had a bed of blankets, a dusting of baby powder, a long alley of carpet duct-taped to the linoleum. He still liked his butt scratched, which I think counts for a lot in terms of quality of life.
The tragedy of dogs is that they wear out, that it falls to us to decide how many days of immobility and confusion shall be their share. Yesterday was the worst of his bad days. I hugged his neck, rubbed his ears; he let off a couple of his infamous farts. His vet came out to the back of the car, gave him the good medicine.
He was a good dog.
