to all the dogs I've loved before
My dad and I spent about 2 hours at the DMV yesterday so we had plenty of time to waste, watching videos on each other's phones and whatnot. We started talking about my dog Scout, who may have a chemical imbalance but is hearty as a horse. Everyone is waiting for him to pass away, except for me. He growls every time Steve kisses me, so I basically have two husbands.
"You should write a story about all your pets," my dad said. So I am, for him. Merry Christmas Dad. I hope you like your present.
Our first little love was a straggly Maltese mix named Peanut. I found him at the Garland city shelter when we lived in Dallas as newlyweds. In the first weeks that we had him, Peanut ate some chocolate candy and then threw it up all over our white down comforter. Things went downhill from there.
We had a loft apartment in Dallas, and one night my brother and his wife came to visit. They weren't especially fond of little dogs. So as we said our goodnights, and they laid down below our loft bedroom on an air mattress, I put Peanut's collar on a teddy bear and pretended Peanut was running then jumping over the side of the loft. They screamed as he landed on him, my prank victorious.
I loved Peanut and when we moved back to Austin, I would take him to Bull Creek Park and let him lay amongst the clover.
It was there Peanut had his first seizure, which scared the heck out of me. I thought he was demonized. We rushed him to the vet, who stabilized him as I cried in the waiting room.
A few minutes later the vet walked out and simply said, "that will be $75.00 for the little seizure dog."
The seizures continued until the end. We put Peanut to sleep shortly after moving into our first home in Northeast Austin. I cried so hard during the process that the vet asked me to leave through the back as I was upsetting everyone in the waiting room.
Then Steve took me to McDonald's for a cheeseburger. I have often wondered if he will do the same when my parents pass away.
After a short mourning period, we started to research breeds, hell-bent on getting a healthy, beautiful specimen of a dog. Kate, our Chesapeake Bay Retriever, came with her own L.L. Bean bed that had her name on it. I fantasized that she would lay down in her bed, fireside, as I read a novel.
In short, Kate was a hellion. We walked her day and night, her wild eyes roving like a horse about to break gate at the Kentucky Derby. One evening Steve decided to go to my brother's house for a few beers, leaving me alone for the first time with Kate. She flung herself around my house, scratching and nipping and just generally acting rabid. I sequestered myself in the bedroom and let her have full reign of the house.
"You'd better come home right now," I told Steve over the phone. "I'm about to kill our dog." He loves telling that story.
Kate went back to the breeder, who rolled her eyes and exchanged looks with her breeder husband when we told them we were getting a golden retriever. Moose was the biggest puppy of his litter, with giant paws and a round belly. A belly that we found out later was filled with worms.
Moose was the most lovely dog I have known, despite his non-stop drooling and amazing amounts of dark ear wax. Where did it all come from? I would regularly clean out his ears with masses of q-tips, and squirt some sort of cleaning liquid into his ears that the vet gave me; it seemed suspiciously a lot like Windex.
Moose also had the coat of a beaver and would leave oil marks along our pink walls as he dragged his 100-pound body through the rooms. We gave him a bandanna to wear when guests would come over to contain the slobber, but he always made a beeline for my dad in his black wool slacks. There was a lot of "Moose, no! He's getting me! He's getting me! Help!"
Poor Moose. He was much loved by Syd and Ben, who used to ride him like a horse. When his time came, he passed away in our backyard in the early evening as twilight was setting. The vet could not come for his body right away, so we covered him up with a giant blue tarp to protect him. It looked like we had murdered someone in our backyard and tried to hide the body, and the neighbors across the street took great interest in all the activity.
"We saw him go by the woodpile and lay down. He never goes by your woodpile. That's when we knew he was going to die. Animals do that, they go somewhere they never go, to die."
Thank you, so comforting. When I told Syd and Ben that Moose was gone, Syd jumped off the couch and immediately began sobbing. It was so painful. Ben sat quietly there, processing the news.
Having a pet is so much harder when you have kids you love dearly, who love the pet dearly. Moose is still talked about with much love and reverence.
We made the move to Kyle shortly after losing Moose. Steve wanted a golden doodle and I should have listened to him. Instead, I found us a bargain Havanese in Bastrop. It was extra if you wanted his papers, which I did not, denying the fact he was not a pure-bred in my own mind.
If you are not familiar with Haveneses, all you need to know is that they are very cute and cuddly, and social and manipulative. Their breed originates in Havana, Cuba, home of a few other dictators.
Scout is 11 going on 12. In Scout's mind, this is the pecking order in our home: me, Scout, Steve, Syd, then Ben. In fact, Ben and Scout have no relationship whatsoever. Imagine living in a house with someone for 11 years and never speaking. That is Ben and Scout.
Whenever we want Scout to go in the kitchen, we have to handle him like an alligator to keep from getting snapped at. In his defense, he is starting to mellow. When he was younger, Steve would put on his leather gloves to pull him out from under the bed and the sounds coming from Scout would terrify the bravest man. Just evil.
Yet now at night, he cuddles and snores on top of me, giving my elbow a lick every now and then. He has the softest fur and a beautiful coat, along with bright brown eyes.
Every time someone in my family asks "How old is Scout?" I know they are calculating how much longer he will live. Recently I got him a prescription for a kind of dog Xanax to use when company comes over. I would say it takes a very slight edge off his personality...he is not going down easy.
Steve says there are no dogs in our future once Scout dies. I know that means we are getting a golden doodle or nothing. I have honestly thought of just getting a high-quality stuffed animal (a toy - not a taxidermy one) to put by my side at night. Is that how the craziness starts?
Scout is sleeping peacefully next to me as I write this. He has been my true blue friend. We fight, we kiss and hug, we take long walks. He may not be perfect, but he's my dog. Everyone should be so lucky to have a dog.
"You should write a story about all your pets," my dad said. So I am, for him. Merry Christmas Dad. I hope you like your present.
Our first little love was a straggly Maltese mix named Peanut. I found him at the Garland city shelter when we lived in Dallas as newlyweds. In the first weeks that we had him, Peanut ate some chocolate candy and then threw it up all over our white down comforter. Things went downhill from there.
We had a loft apartment in Dallas, and one night my brother and his wife came to visit. They weren't especially fond of little dogs. So as we said our goodnights, and they laid down below our loft bedroom on an air mattress, I put Peanut's collar on a teddy bear and pretended Peanut was running then jumping over the side of the loft. They screamed as he landed on him, my prank victorious.
I loved Peanut and when we moved back to Austin, I would take him to Bull Creek Park and let him lay amongst the clover.
It was there Peanut had his first seizure, which scared the heck out of me. I thought he was demonized. We rushed him to the vet, who stabilized him as I cried in the waiting room.
A few minutes later the vet walked out and simply said, "that will be $75.00 for the little seizure dog."
The seizures continued until the end. We put Peanut to sleep shortly after moving into our first home in Northeast Austin. I cried so hard during the process that the vet asked me to leave through the back as I was upsetting everyone in the waiting room.
Then Steve took me to McDonald's for a cheeseburger. I have often wondered if he will do the same when my parents pass away.
After a short mourning period, we started to research breeds, hell-bent on getting a healthy, beautiful specimen of a dog. Kate, our Chesapeake Bay Retriever, came with her own L.L. Bean bed that had her name on it. I fantasized that she would lay down in her bed, fireside, as I read a novel.
In short, Kate was a hellion. We walked her day and night, her wild eyes roving like a horse about to break gate at the Kentucky Derby. One evening Steve decided to go to my brother's house for a few beers, leaving me alone for the first time with Kate. She flung herself around my house, scratching and nipping and just generally acting rabid. I sequestered myself in the bedroom and let her have full reign of the house.
"You'd better come home right now," I told Steve over the phone. "I'm about to kill our dog." He loves telling that story.
Kate went back to the breeder, who rolled her eyes and exchanged looks with her breeder husband when we told them we were getting a golden retriever. Moose was the biggest puppy of his litter, with giant paws and a round belly. A belly that we found out later was filled with worms.
Moose was the most lovely dog I have known, despite his non-stop drooling and amazing amounts of dark ear wax. Where did it all come from? I would regularly clean out his ears with masses of q-tips, and squirt some sort of cleaning liquid into his ears that the vet gave me; it seemed suspiciously a lot like Windex.
Moose also had the coat of a beaver and would leave oil marks along our pink walls as he dragged his 100-pound body through the rooms. We gave him a bandanna to wear when guests would come over to contain the slobber, but he always made a beeline for my dad in his black wool slacks. There was a lot of "Moose, no! He's getting me! He's getting me! Help!"
Poor Moose. He was much loved by Syd and Ben, who used to ride him like a horse. When his time came, he passed away in our backyard in the early evening as twilight was setting. The vet could not come for his body right away, so we covered him up with a giant blue tarp to protect him. It looked like we had murdered someone in our backyard and tried to hide the body, and the neighbors across the street took great interest in all the activity.
"We saw him go by the woodpile and lay down. He never goes by your woodpile. That's when we knew he was going to die. Animals do that, they go somewhere they never go, to die."
Thank you, so comforting. When I told Syd and Ben that Moose was gone, Syd jumped off the couch and immediately began sobbing. It was so painful. Ben sat quietly there, processing the news.
Having a pet is so much harder when you have kids you love dearly, who love the pet dearly. Moose is still talked about with much love and reverence.
We made the move to Kyle shortly after losing Moose. Steve wanted a golden doodle and I should have listened to him. Instead, I found us a bargain Havanese in Bastrop. It was extra if you wanted his papers, which I did not, denying the fact he was not a pure-bred in my own mind.
If you are not familiar with Haveneses, all you need to know is that they are very cute and cuddly, and social and manipulative. Their breed originates in Havana, Cuba, home of a few other dictators.
Scout is 11 going on 12. In Scout's mind, this is the pecking order in our home: me, Scout, Steve, Syd, then Ben. In fact, Ben and Scout have no relationship whatsoever. Imagine living in a house with someone for 11 years and never speaking. That is Ben and Scout.
Whenever we want Scout to go in the kitchen, we have to handle him like an alligator to keep from getting snapped at. In his defense, he is starting to mellow. When he was younger, Steve would put on his leather gloves to pull him out from under the bed and the sounds coming from Scout would terrify the bravest man. Just evil.
Yet now at night, he cuddles and snores on top of me, giving my elbow a lick every now and then. He has the softest fur and a beautiful coat, along with bright brown eyes.
Every time someone in my family asks "How old is Scout?" I know they are calculating how much longer he will live. Recently I got him a prescription for a kind of dog Xanax to use when company comes over. I would say it takes a very slight edge off his personality...he is not going down easy.
Steve says there are no dogs in our future once Scout dies. I know that means we are getting a golden doodle or nothing. I have honestly thought of just getting a high-quality stuffed animal (a toy - not a taxidermy one) to put by my side at night. Is that how the craziness starts?
Scout is sleeping peacefully next to me as I write this. He has been my true blue friend. We fight, we kiss and hug, we take long walks. He may not be perfect, but he's my dog. Everyone should be so lucky to have a dog.