Goodbye my sweet pup
Howard the Wheaten terrier died last week.
His decline was fast and difficult. Seizures led to a diagnosis of a brain tumor. Medication made things worse, and by the end, he was out of his mind with agitation and confusion. We take some comfort in knowing that his torment didn’t last for long.
Howard has been part of this page since he came to us as a puppy 10 years ago. I’ve written many columns about him, including one of the first, in which I complain about what a bad puppy he was. Seems he would latch onto my children’s socks and pants, trying to stop them from walking out the door in the morning.
That’s the kind of memory that gets plowed under in the forward press of time. He was an awful puppy, but grew into as fine a dog as you’ll know. I wrote a lot of words about that Howard, too.
How he was quiet – he rarely barked and never without reason. How he loved my son with a rowdy passion that caused the two of them to bounce into each other’s arms after they’d been apart for even a day. How Howard never let me out of his sight. While I worked, he sat under my desk with his head on my knee, and when I got up to go to the kitchen he followed me there and back. He would wait for me outside the bathroom.
I’ve heard it said that life is a series of dogs. Howard was the latest in a long line of family dogs, each of them marking a bit of my life. The Howard years saw this family through thousands of days, most of them happy and some of them sad, as it is with most families.
Howard was ours through my cancer and a divorce. He saw my kids through grade school to college. He’s in the background of prom and graduation photos.
He was the first to greet the farmer when he arrived back here from South America. He was supposed to be my pal through the empty-nest years. The house feels even emptier now, like I should crank up the heat and turn on more lights.
Pet lovers talk about the Rainbow Bridge, that place in heaven where our dogs will be waiting for us. I don’t know about that, but I sure like the idea of seeing my good boy again some day.
We hoped Howard would pass away here at home. A large dose of medicine allowed him to finally stop pacing and to fall asleep, but he would need more help in dying.
The farmer and I made a sling of a bed sheet and carried Howard around the side yard to the car. He was hidden in there, a heavy, barely breathing nest of curly fur. I reached in, trying to feel a last bit of his warmth. And then the farmer took Howard on his final ride. My handsome, loyal, sweet pup.
All these years writing, when I couldn’t think of anything else, I would write about Howard. He was my muse – an endless source of material. Writing this column will be more difficult from now on.
Not because he’s not here to give me ideas, but because he is not here. As I sit at my desk typing these words, there is no warm buddy sleeping at my feet, and no head resting on my knee.