I am not quite sure what my parents were thinking when they bought a suede, forest green couch set, but Snowy loved them. An American Eskimo with a white coat, 'Snowy Bear' covered the couches with his fur at any and all opportunities. A question asked on the daily: “where is the lint brush?” Dad has a meeting for work, brother has a band concert, parents have guests coming over, “where is the lint brush?”
Aside from the annoyance of dog hair everywhere, his bark made the hair stand up on the back of your neck. When he was a puppy, he chewed my Barbie dolls’ heads off. The few nights a week we sat down to eat at the dinner table, he begged by your feet for some lovin’.
I know how it sounds. “You hate dogs, huh? You must hate rainbows and ice cream and sunshine too!” No, I do not hate dogs. I was a busy teenager in Snowy’s prime years. I can count on both hands how many times I brought him for walks. For me, he was just there, and for that, I am forever regretful.
He was not just there. He made the house into a home. He was my parents’ favorite kid; My dad would call me a mutt before he ever called Snowy one. He cleaned our plates before we put them in the dishwasher. He slept at the end of the bed, not wanting to be too close to your personal space, but definitely not sleeping on the floor. He loved rides in the car- he would hold his head out the window even if we were going 75 mph down the highway. He loved camping and tolerated fireworks from inside the camper every Fourth of July.
People generally give tips on what to expect when buying a puppy, but what they do not tell you is this: you must prepare for the hardest day of your entire life.
It is so unfair that after spending a quarter of our lives with them, we are forced to make that treacherous trip to the vet. He’s sitting in the passenger seat, tail wagging, smiling even, not thinking about the future. His only concern is that he sees what is going on outside. You pull up to the vet, thinking to yourself that you can still turn back now. You can sleep on it for another night.
You do not sleep on it for another night. In fact, you do not sleep for nights on end. The silence echoes in the house when the front door swings open. His bark does not greet you at the door. The mailman still comes on schedule at 3:25 and Snowy is not at the window sill to say hello. The plates and bowls pile up in the sink with leftover sauce and residue caked on. The leash stays on the hook by the front door.
The leash stays on the hook by the front door to remind you of every walk you took and every walk you could have taken him on.
The leash, hardly tattered or worn, reminds you that he is not in pain anymore.
The leash reminds you of his protection and loyalty.
The leash reminds you that he is always a few steps ahead, waiting for you to catch up.
Until you catch up with him, keep that leash close. It will get you through your own numbered days.
