If I knew, I mean TRULY knew how much it would hurt to lose a pet . . .
. . . I still would not give up a single nanosecond that I spent loving Buddy.
He was my rock when I was diagnosed with Multiple Sclerosis.
He was Ken’s rock after his father died.
He was Ken’s best friend. My husband lost his best friend. I lost the first animal I ever truly loved.
He left us peacefully in his sleep last night.
I don’t have words to express my grief. My sorrow. My heartbreak.
My joy. My love. My Buddy.
Rest in peace, Big Boy. My Old Man. Play with your Grandpa.
Please do what I asked you to do for me.
And again, thank you for your time with us here.
So, while driving home from whatever errand I was doing this morning, I saw my husband and the dogs in the yard. They were playing with the Kong frisbee, which is one of Lilly’s favorite toys. She LOVES that thing.
I got out of the car, and Lilly dropped the frisbee. Right under her. Then, apparently, she remembered why she was ouside . . . and peed on it. She then went to pick it up. I swear, if she spoke English these words would have escaped her lips: “Who in the hell peed on my frisbee!?!?” She left it, and Kenny had to pick it up, and try to keep Ollie away from it as he brought it inside to be washed.
That’s my girl!
In our unceasing quest to control Lilly’s behavior, she’s no longer allowed in bed with me (or by herself) until Kenny comes up. So, I have to listen to her breathing under the door. It’s been silent for a while, so I almost thought that she had given up and gone downstairs to be with the boys.
Then . . .
I heard her dog farts through the door!!
That’s my baby! 🙂
of last night . . .
Buddy is too old to jump into bed anymore, so, when he’s here there is a huge nest of a dog bed, blankets, and comforters (yes, plural) into which he nestles to sleep. I go to bed before the dogs or Kenny. Last night, I remember vaguely opening my eyes and seeing Kenny lifting almost 80 pound Buddy and putting him in bed with us.
Moments like that remind me why I married him.
We all know how I feel about dog ear wax *barf in my mouth.* Well, faithful readers (all two of you?), I’ve discovered a second. Buddy, our roughly 13-year-old American Stafforshire Terrier, is visiting us for a few days while Ken’s grandmother is in the hospital. Last night, whilst he was frumfering around in Kenny’s big chair, we caught him licking the arm of the chair. Upon further examination, it was blood! Panic ensues, and we boot him off the chair. I start hunting for animal-friendly, blood-removing chemicals and paper towels. Kenny moves in on Buddy to investigate the problem. “He’s got a hemorroid!” comes the cry from the living room floor. “What do we do?” “Can we use Preparation H?” As if I know. So, as I am lying on the chair, with my face inches away from a smear of bloody dog poo, Kenny is on the floor with the dog, putting ointment on his butthole. We both had to laugh, though. “What did you guys do that night?” “Well, I scrubbed bloody turd off our furniture.” “And I wiped my dog’s asshole.” Yeah, we’re that kind of people. Now, this in an of itself, did not gross me out.
I went into the kitchen to wash my hands, and in comes Kenny, peeling off rubber gloves over a handful of bloody paper towels. Blood doesn’t bother me in the least . . . but there was something about that moment that made my stomach heave and I had to look away.
I love my dogs. So, evidentally, does my husband. Very much.
Lilly is in bed with me, snoring and having a dog dream. I don’t know what she’s chasing, but it’s shaking the bed.
My stomach is jiggling, making my guts rumble and I feel the bubbles.
She’s going to wake up when I make a mad dash for the bathroom in a minute.
Sweet dreams, little pooper.