Paws for love

Today I was browsing through a table of used books at a university fundraiser and I came across a geography text book I used in first year. The class I used the book for was terrifically un-stimulating. It was the only one I skipped several times because it seemed like a waste of time to sit there and listen to the professor read from the book rather than offer any of his own teaching. The exam was brutal.

The text brought back another strong memory. It was identical except in better condition than mine was (or is, I think I still have it somewhere). Mine has hundreds of tiny teeth marks in the spine and a corner of the front cover torn off, thanks to a teething beagle puppy known as Elmo.

I was so mad at him that day when he used my book as a chew toy. That little dog was in a destructive phase and a pooping on the carpet phase. But he was cute, cuddly and did enough funny, puppy dog things to remind me that I really did love him.

I remember Elmo sleeping on my bed. I'd have to curl my legs around his 30lbs, snoring body because he always seemed to find his comfy spot in the middle of the bed. The noise and contortion was hardly bothersome. His snoring is actually the most comforting sound I know.

On Thanksgiving weekend my family, Stephen and his parents gathered at the cottage. At night we were all woken to the sound of Elmo wheezing and coughing. Unlike his soft snores, this cough was so disturbing it gave me knots in my stomach and I winced in pain every time he let one out. It sounded like a lamb going to slaughter.

Days before the weekend, my dad had called me while I was with Stephen to tell me that Elmo wasn't himself and they were worried about him. My mom took him to the vet and although it wasn't his final destination, the doctor told her Elmo was in the early stages of congestive heart failure. My Schmoe is dying.

You know when you get a pet that you are more likely to outlive him, but you push this thought out of your head so you can enjoy all the joy and unconditional love he brings you. He turns three and finally seems to have turned the corner on that rambunctious puppy stage. He turns seven and a little voice whispers to you that he's hit middle age, but he still looks good. He turns 11 and you start noticing the characteristics of the typical senior dog. He turns 13 and you know every day forward is a gift.

My mom said to me the other night while I was scratching Schmoe's back that he doesn't really smile anymore. He used to seem to know how to put on the charm whenever he wanted another cookie or to go for a walk. He'd stick his pink tongue out a little and the corners of his mouth would naturally curl up, like a smiling stuffed animal you'd be drawn to in the toy store.

The vet prescribed him a cocktail of meds to take to help with the congestion. If he seemed to be in pain I know my parents would do what was necessary. For now though my mom feeds him gourmet food and takes him for shorter walks. This is quality of life, we can only guess and hope, for a dog.

In 2013 I fell in love and found an unbelievable joy in my heart. I suspect that I could also find a void in it where a spotted dog dug a hole and buried 15 years of memories.