My dog, Scooby Tecumseh Sherman Sawyer, died recently. She was an 11 year old, lazy-as-can-be chocolate lab,
(story re-published by request.)
and she will be missed. This is not like losing a parent. This one really hurts.
I’m not one of those people who take the whole dog relationship too far; I mean I never lost sight of the fact that she was a dog. To me if you cook for your dog or ever take it with you shopping, you’ve got issues that go well beyond which heart worm pills to pick. But I loved her. I truly did.
I am an insomniac, so there were an awful lot of hours of Scooby and me sitting on the sofa while every one else was asleep, just waiting for the sun to come up, or to feel sleepy enough to walk up the stairs and both try and nod off in my bed.
The greatest thing about Scooby was that she agreed with me on everything. We both always believed that Eli Manning would be great, even when no other dogs did. We both loved the Mets, hated the Yankees, Republicans and my mother-in-law’s cooking. We both could watch the Tivo of Terrell Owens crying after losing to the Giants over and over again and we both believed the facts that my friend Kip was a gymnast in high school and is now a Prince fan is definitely connected.
She would love to hop in the car with me and take that right hand turn on a red light at Chatsworth and Myrtle. I used to tease her about how difficult it must be to buy a two piece bathing suit when you have 8 nipples, and she would give me crap about my limited abilities to lick myself.
There were some rough spots; it took me a long time to convince her that eating her vomit after throwing up didn’t really help matters and that I could take her on the golf course for a run, or she could continue to believe that duck crap was a petit four, but definitely not both.
And I had to say, “Better place? better place?” She had no debt, no job, no spouse to fight with, all she did was lie on the couch, and she could lick her own privates to boot. Better place? How much better could it be?”