His name was Teddy. He was my great-grandmother’s dog. He came to live with us when my great-grandma went to live in an assisted living facility.
My grandmother and great-grandmother got him from the Humane Society several years ago. They were never really sure how old he was, but they guessed him somewhere around 5 when they got him, so that would put him somewhere around 10 now.
He was a good little dog. Never gave us any trouble at all, ever. The kids loved him. My son doesn’t know what’s happened, but my daughter and stepson are pretty shaken.
Teddy’s been acting kinda old lately. He used to be a yippy little thing, but not so much anymore. Sleeping a lot more, walking a little more slowly, not eating as much as usual, and going deaf.
About an hour ago, my husband asked me if I’d seen Teddy since I’d gotten home. He couldn’t recall having seen him at all today, but he’d been in & out. I went out into the front room, because I know Teddy liked to curl up under the kids’ play table and sleep there. Sure enough, there he was. But it didn’t look like he was breathing. I touched him, and that confirmed my suspicion.
So, my husband has buried Teddy in the backyard, and he and my stepson said a small prayer for him.
I’m not as sad as I thought I’d be. I’ve had pets die of old age before, and I think I kinda saw this coming. Not that I didn’t love the little guy–if and when I ever get another dog, I’d like one like him. Teddy was great. But my husband and I knew something was up, and we were sort of braced for it.
The kids will be okay, I’m sure. But I am really not looking forward to telling my great-grandma. She and Teddy were very, very close. My great-grandma is a wonderful, wonderful woman, but at 98 years old, she’s starting to get a little honked off that she’s still here. Telling her that she’s outlived her dog too is only going to upset her more.
Damn.
Thanks for listening to me.