The love of a good dog

            Our family dog is a miniature, red poodle.  We named him Caleb because it meant bold.  Go figure. He's sixteen this year, (well over a hundred in people years) but still manages to get under my feet, run into walls, and eat his weight in dog food every couple of months.  We haven't put him on oxygen yet but he wheezes more than an emphysema patient.  His continued stranglehold on life is daunting in sheer perseverance. Caleb has survived about ten years longer than I anticipated when I purchased him for my five-year-old son in a moment of weakness. 

            I spent my younger years on a small farm in Washington State and none of our dogs seemed to live long.  Either they were hit by a pickup truck on the country road that ran by our place, or they got under the feet of an angry cow, etc… So, I guess I always assumed dogs were temporary pets, such as goldfish.

Not to say I won't miss him when he's gone, but he's not human, (no matter what he thinks) and I'm not going to have him cremated and scatter his ashes over his own personally marked territory.  It will be a quiet funeral with just family and friends and he's getting planted behind the new shed.

Of course, he could last another five years.  My kids will have grown up and flown the coop and Caleb will still be cripping around, blind, deaf, and arthritic, and I will be stuck spoon feeding him blended turkey at Christmas dinner. 

Whether I acknowledge it or not, Caleb believes me to be his mother and is never far from my side.  He walks much slower now, but still follows me about the house as though afraid I will disappear and never return.  His red coat is turning gray around the ears and face and his back is slightly crooked from arthritis.  He tires easily after a very short game of fetch, and retreats panting to his beanbag.  But he still waits by the front window for me when he knows I'm coming home, and that's what I'll miss most.  His eager anticipation of my return and his exuberant welcome.  We don't get that from most people, but a small dog gives it without holding back.