For Chewie

About a year and a half ago, a friend of mine recieved the most PRESHUS PUPPY EVAR, as a reconciliation gift from her ex. Given the space limitation of her living arrangements, she had to give him back. Due to his demanding work schedule, the puppy ended up with.... us.

And so it began. My hubby was in LURV with this puppy in a big way, which I thought was funny. This big, tough construction worker cooing and fussing over a little poodle. To me, he was cute, but yet another mouth to feed.

But at some point along the way, he became part of the family, and he also became mine. He and my son housebroke/toilet trained at the same time. They both had "accidents" around the house. Sometimes I could figure out which one was responsible, sometimes I couldn't. Either way, it was more shit to clean up, literally. LOL

He chewed on EVERYTHING. Leave a pencil out, you'd find wood chips in the floor. Barbies became horribly mangled and disfigured. My kids would go nuts to find that certain toys they forgot to put away would end up as chew toys. But Chewie taught them if you care about something, you need to put it up when you're done with it.

He'd bark endlessly for no reason, in the middle of the night.  I called it his game of "Protecting the Lady and the Manor".  I woke up countless mornings by having my fingers nibbled on, because he wanted to go outside.  Sometimes he would be hot on my heels, acting as if he'd want to go outside, and when I'd open the door, he'd just stand there and look at me. As if I were missing something.

When my husband started his new job, having to leave home for long stretches of time, Chewie became my bed buddy. Life became a little less lonely with his quirky, but reliable presence.

Anyone with even the slightest bit of foresight can guess what's coming.

Poor little Chewie was hit by a truck this weekend. It was a pure accident. The driver told us what happened. Chewie was playing with a neighborhood dog, they were running one way, and Chewie changed his mind and ran another way, which happened to be straight in front of his truck. I like to think though that Chewie was doing one of the things he loved best (besides chewing), when he passed on. Getting to play.

It was hard telling the kids. My son is too young to really understand. My daughter, who is beginning to grasp the concept of death, reacted calmly at first, but then retreated to her room and locked the door. She didn't want me in there, and came out about 30 minutes later with a red face. I let them look at Chewie, and later that day, a neighbor helped me dig Chewie's grave.

I feel like I'm over-reacting sometimes, and that people are getting bored with hearing me piss and moan about it. But I really did love this dog. He was part of the family, even if only briefly. It hurts that he's gone.

Just that morning, I was pondering on clipping his fur, and giving him a bath. He was gone before I ever got the chance to. Just that morning, I'd fed him, but hadn't eaten yet, hoping I'd slip him something better into his dog dish. The food was still sitting there, un-eaten, this morning. His bowl still full of water. I picked them up and washed them. Perhaps I'll put them up somewhere later.  To think that the day started out typically enough, and by that evening, he was in a hole in the ground.

I'm still stepping over his dog toys in the living room. I still look beside the bed first thing in the morning, to make sure I won't step on him when I get up. I still expect to be jumped on when I get home. I still expect to hear barking, and the house is too quiet. I still expect him to lay on me, cat-like, in the most obnoxious and uncomfortable way ever, to get attention.

Besides missing him, his death is also a very unpleasant reminder that all things die. I can kid myself all I want, but perhaps the last conversation I had with my husband, could very well be the LAST conversation I'll ever have with my husband. That one friend who has a chronic health condition may last another 20-25 years. The past 10 seems to have flown by quickly enough and I realize that's not much time. That one friend who likes to party may take the wrong thing.  That some depressed school shooter on a rampage may walk from the high school to the elementary school and kill a bunch of kindergartners -- including mine -- in some sadistic shooting spree. That my mother is getting older, and how many Thanksgivings and Christmases do we have left together, anyways?

So many lovely, depressing topics to ponder on. But I digress.

Goodbye, my pretty poodle puppy. I'll miss you.