My silly dog.
The one that not only outsmarted Grandma, but then trained her.
My son's best friend.
And mine. The one who was left behind with me.
The one who was there everyday after chemo. Who laid at my feet as I went through that chemical hell twice a week.
Who followed me from room to room and would look at me as if to say "Are to going to be in here for a while? If so, I'll be laying in that corner over there." And I would feel guilty if I had to get up to go get something and accidentally wake him up.
When we would build a fire, he would come and lay between you and the fire, soaking up all the heat.
And on those mornings when the yard was wet from dew or rain. He'd step through the grass like a ballerina. He hated being wet. I had stopped giving him baths long ago because of the look he would give me though soaked fur of: "How can you do this to me?" The ladies at Petco got to endure that stare, I wimped out after about the third time.
30 MPH was the max I could drive with the window down, anything above that and the wind in his face got to be too much. I'd hit 35 and he'd pull his head in and give me a look that said "Hey, slow down. I'm enjoying myself here." I'd explain to him that doing on 30 the interstate would get us both killed, then he'd turn around a few times, settle in and sleep until we got to about the Keystone exit on 65. At that point, he'd wake up and get hyper-excited. Whether because the trip was over, he had to pee, or he knew that he was about to snooker Grandma out of all the dog treats and food she had, I never knew.
He was my best friend and loyal companion. He deserved a better owner then I. And leaving him on that table today was the hardest thing I ever did. I'm glad that Robert was also there and holding him as he went.
He never was on the right side of the door. Or maybe it was me that was on the wrong side.