SWEET GOODBYE BEST FRIEND

Why does it always seem like the worst things in life happen in the middle of the night?  

I am pretty gosh darned low right now, and writing is the only things that I can think of to do in order to perhaps help me sleep. You see, I have had a tragedy in my house late last night/early this morning.

My best friend passed away.

My dog, Chico, came to me on a Monday in March of 2001.  I remember it was a Monday, because I was dating a girl who worked at Lollipop Farm at the time, and I went to visit her at work on a Friday.  She gave me a tour of the facilities, including a “hehind the scenes” part that took me into the doggy infirmary.

It was there that I met Chico.  I thought of him all weekend long.  He had a little doggy lampshade on his head when she brought him out for me, telling me that he had just had surgery.  It was on his penis.  His hot dog didn’t fit into the bun at all, and they did some cutting to try to make it fit better.  I jokingly told Dorothy that I could relate to a Chihuahua with a big penis, and big laughs were had by all.  Chico climbed right up into my lap and was all excited to meet me.   He was even moreso when someone brought a box of mice into the room.  Chico was enthralled by the mice, but still imparted to me that he wanted me to take him home.  It was love at first sight.  How could I refuse?

I still remember the drive home vividly.  Chico was so excited and exuberant, he was all over the interior of my car.  Chico was exuberant about everything, as I was soon to find out.  He had a zest for life that was above reproach.  He loved chasing balls, running after people on bikes when on a walk, and goodies or treats.  

There were countless walks, and apartments on Lake Avenue and Gorsline street to adjust to in addition to my house.  Nothing ever seemed to bother him, except when hiding toys.  He had the funniest thing.  When Chico would have a toy in his mouth, sometimes he would want to hide it somewhere in the house or apartment.  He would walk around looking for a place, softly whining the whole time.  Finally, he would find a cushion or blanket that he deemed perfect, put the toy down, and try to bury it under the blanket or cushion and crying and whining the whole time while doing so.  It was bizarre, but oh so adorable.

The whole time, Chico endeared himself to my father and mother, and then my wife.  Of course, he was always “my little boy”.  You grow close to a dog that you have to put KY Jelly or Vaseline on his wiener a couple times a week for most of the time you have him.

When my wife (then girlfriend) moved from Denver to live with me in the months after my father’s death in the  summer of 2007, Chico suddenly got four brothers and sisters that my wife brought with her.  He handled it with aplomb.  In fact, I think he loved spending the latter part of his life as part of a “pack”.

Sadly, age started creeping up on Chico in the last year or two.  Lollipop told me that they THOUGHT he was a year or so old when I got him.  I am pretty sure now that they fudged that, and he was at least 2 or 3, maybe more.  Little dogs like Chico usually make it into their mid to late teens, and it he was one when I got him, that would put him at 13 now.  I’m not buying it.

Anyways, our vet told us a year and a half ago that Chico was in early stage renal failure.  His kidneys were failing.  They put him on a special diet to feed him and told us to give him IV fluids at least once a week.  My wife and I did that faithfully.  We gave him an extra half year at least I’m convinced.  

When we went to Denver in Late July, we noticed Chico was starting to cough a little bit.  We didn’t think much of it.  After all, the dog is old, we thought.  Had to just be age, or allergies or the nights getting colder, we thought.  After two or three weeks following our return, Chico’s cough kept getting worse, so we took him to the vet.  They put him on antibiotics and told us to up his IV fluids to 3 or 4 times a week.  It didn’t work.  Cough didn’t go away.

We took him back to get looked at again by a vet, and an X-ray.  They gave us another round of antibiotics and a cough suppresent for dogs.  Nothing seemed to work.  His cough just wouldn’t go away.  Finally, last night, Chico started breating soft and fast.  It was a Sunday night.  It was 3 in the morning.  Chico wouldn’t eat for the first time in his life.  I knew it was bad.  I called my wife, who was in Denver to tell her things were not good.  She told me to pick Chico up and hold him.

He died in my arms while I was talking to my wife.

As I speak, Chico’s body is lying comfortably sleeping in his doggy bed on our dining room table.  I can’t sleep at all.  Probably won’t.  Gotta find a neighbor or friend to drive me to the doggy cremation place now.

I’ve been wiping away tears the whole time I have been writing this.  Can’t help it.  Those memories of that little fella will be with me for the rest of my life, joined with the memories of my other three dogs.

As sad as I am right now, I still feel so sorry for those people who don’t have any dogs or cats in their lives and refuse to get any.  Those people don’t have to deal with barking, meowing, pooping or peeing on the rug, keeping you awake at night by whining, fussing or snoring.  or bothering the neighbors.  They also won’t receive the unconditional love and acceptance that a dog or cat will provide for more than a decade.  Not to mention the countless hours of entertainment and amusement they will give you.

As sad as I am right now, I wouldn’t trade anything for the dozen years I spent with my best friend.  He was with me for  my happiness after a number of first dates.  He was there to console me after a number of breakups.  He was there to welcome my wife, moving from Colorado.  He was there to greet me when I got home from my wedding reception. 

Now, I’m sure he will be waiting for me on the other side.  Rest in peace my dear little friend.  I’ll see you again on the other side of the rainbow bridge.