In 1996 I had a job [where I put in too many hours] and a house [where I lived alone], I was single [as usual] and unattached [again, maybe I should tell that story sometime... or not], so naturally I decided it was a good time to make a long-term commitment. I needed a dog to make my house a home.
I knew that a local pet rescue group set up at one of the pet supply stores on weekends so I went looking. I’ll spare you the boring details and jump to a couple weeks later when I brought one of the mutts home. She was about a year old [yay! already house trained!] and the family that had given her up had called her Pongo. Pongo? That was the name of the daddy dog in 101 Dalmatians. Since she was a she and in no way that I could see resembled a dalmatian I renamed her. I mean, look at that face:
I usually refer to her online [and often IRL] as Pooter Dog. She took to the new name easily and even tolerated the nickname. Two years later I found a stray and during the week while I was trying to find a home for her the two of them began playing together. I suddenly realized I had two dogs. Pooter Dog and Peanut Pup.
Fair warning before I continue: read the title and do the math. You know what’s coming.
Three years ago Pooter Dog fell down one afternoon and had trouble getting back up. Scared the crap out of me. Turns out, aside from being 14 years old at that point, she had an irregular heartbeat. And I figure we’ve been on borrowed time ever since. [Peanut Pup has arthritis and is now 14 years old -- borrowed time there too, I'm afraid.] In the last couple years Pooter Dog collapsed a few more times and her gait became uneven. Last week she went down again and in her final days she could not stand or walk unassisted. Yesterday I took my friend to the veterinarian and said goodbye for the last time.