Tattered Sign
I open the garbage can to toss in a cigarette butt, and the tattered sign says it all. It once read "Beware of Dog" and now it is faded and ripped into pieces.
It always amazed me that my father even put that sign on his fence, my dog was certainly not something to fear - lest a licking prove fatal. But there I was standing there, staring at the dollar store black and orange sign, I felt the hot sting of tears forming just behind my eyes.
Fourteen years ago, just one day after my father's birthday, we packed into our car and went to the SPCA because Dad wanted a dog. Our previous dog: Snuffles had died in her sleep on thanksgiving day just two years prior and Dad was ready to have a canine in the house again.
They said he was a lab, this tiny ball of black puppy that I could stand in my hands. He was the cutest little black and white puppy you ever saw, and he had brown slats of fur over his eyes just like eyebrows.
My entire family are fans of the songs of Harry Chapin, and when my brother was a child Harry's brother Tom had a children’s show called "Make A Wish" and so we named this little creature: Sir Chapin Make-A-Wish. Of course we just called him Chapin for short. We set up a nice bed made out of some padding and a large box for him to sleep in, and when he was awake he would spend hours in it - his paws propped up on the side of the box peaking over the side.
We learned very shortly that he most certainly wasn't a lab, he was a mutt to be sure - but predominantly he was a Border Colley and a damn awesome one. As he grew larger he began to herd us around the back yard, and he loved it when Dad would take him out in the yard and chip wiffle golf balls around for him to chase.
He grew to be quite a large dog, his head being quite larger than the small thing I would hold. He used to crawl up into my brothers lap while he was reading and would stare at the pages as if he was reading as well, periodically looking at Patrick until he turned the page. He refused to allow you to put hats or sunglasses on him (Patrick tried many a time.) And he loved to follow me up the stairs to my room. He also had a thing for Cheez-Doodles™ so for some time we didn't buy dog treats we just bought those.
Our previous dog was more imprinted on Mom and Patrick than on Dad and myself... but Chapin imprinted on Dad and I and was certainly more our dog than theirs. He loved us, and of course we loved him.
In 1999 when our house caught fire and we were driven to stay at my grandparents, they refused to let us keep him with us. We took him to my uncle's house, where we hoped he would get along with Uncle Tommy's dog Maxine. Apparently he didn't because after one night there, he escaped and like Captain Hiltz he survived it. Three days loose in Norfolk, where his only avenues of escape from my uncles home were either Tidewater Drive or Little Creek Road. But he made it and was none the worse for wear.
We moved into a new home and the dog quickly adapted to this is as home, taking over the hassock of my fathers chair as his bed. (For Casa folk, the really comfy green chair in the second section by the main entrance is the chair I speak of.)
And up until last night, he spent almost every night perched on that damn thing. But over the last few years his hips began failing him, then his lower leg joints. He was getting old and it was almost painfully obvious that he wasn't much longer for this world.
Saturday night/Sunday morning when I returned from the cafe he was asleep safe and sound, so I went to bed but an hour later was awoken by this horrible wailing sound. I ran to him to see he'd fallen off his little bed and was trapped between it and the wall; I yanked the hassock away to give him the clearance he'd need to get back on his feet. And he just laid there breathing in measured labored gasps. I laid there with him for an hour before he mustered the strength the stand up and walk toward door to go outside. Once he'd returned to his bed he attempted thrice to pull himself up onto it, but just couldn't get his back legs to do it... so of course I helped him. That was the last time I saw my dog conscious.
Today my father took Chapin to be put to sleep. He, unbeknownst to me, hadn't eaten anything in three days and the time I got him to go out was one of the few times he'd even been awake this weekend. When he was asleep it was obvious that the end was nigh, and when he was awake he was yowling in pain.
I know it was the right thing to do, I know it was the humane thing to do. But I loved my dog so much, and it sucks; and hurts. This house feels cold and empty without him here.
Thank you Chapin for having been a part of my life these last fourteen years... I will miss you so terribly much. I love you.
It always amazed me that my father even put that sign on his fence, my dog was certainly not something to fear - lest a licking prove fatal. But there I was standing there, staring at the dollar store black and orange sign, I felt the hot sting of tears forming just behind my eyes.
Fourteen years ago, just one day after my father's birthday, we packed into our car and went to the SPCA because Dad wanted a dog. Our previous dog: Snuffles had died in her sleep on thanksgiving day just two years prior and Dad was ready to have a canine in the house again.
They said he was a lab, this tiny ball of black puppy that I could stand in my hands. He was the cutest little black and white puppy you ever saw, and he had brown slats of fur over his eyes just like eyebrows.
My entire family are fans of the songs of Harry Chapin, and when my brother was a child Harry's brother Tom had a children’s show called "Make A Wish" and so we named this little creature: Sir Chapin Make-A-Wish. Of course we just called him Chapin for short. We set up a nice bed made out of some padding and a large box for him to sleep in, and when he was awake he would spend hours in it - his paws propped up on the side of the box peaking over the side.
We learned very shortly that he most certainly wasn't a lab, he was a mutt to be sure - but predominantly he was a Border Colley and a damn awesome one. As he grew larger he began to herd us around the back yard, and he loved it when Dad would take him out in the yard and chip wiffle golf balls around for him to chase.
He grew to be quite a large dog, his head being quite larger than the small thing I would hold. He used to crawl up into my brothers lap while he was reading and would stare at the pages as if he was reading as well, periodically looking at Patrick until he turned the page. He refused to allow you to put hats or sunglasses on him (Patrick tried many a time.) And he loved to follow me up the stairs to my room. He also had a thing for Cheez-Doodles™ so for some time we didn't buy dog treats we just bought those.
Our previous dog was more imprinted on Mom and Patrick than on Dad and myself... but Chapin imprinted on Dad and I and was certainly more our dog than theirs. He loved us, and of course we loved him.
In 1999 when our house caught fire and we were driven to stay at my grandparents, they refused to let us keep him with us. We took him to my uncle's house, where we hoped he would get along with Uncle Tommy's dog Maxine. Apparently he didn't because after one night there, he escaped and like Captain Hiltz he survived it. Three days loose in Norfolk, where his only avenues of escape from my uncles home were either Tidewater Drive or Little Creek Road. But he made it and was none the worse for wear.
We moved into a new home and the dog quickly adapted to this is as home, taking over the hassock of my fathers chair as his bed. (For Casa folk, the really comfy green chair in the second section by the main entrance is the chair I speak of.)
And up until last night, he spent almost every night perched on that damn thing. But over the last few years his hips began failing him, then his lower leg joints. He was getting old and it was almost painfully obvious that he wasn't much longer for this world.
Saturday night/Sunday morning when I returned from the cafe he was asleep safe and sound, so I went to bed but an hour later was awoken by this horrible wailing sound. I ran to him to see he'd fallen off his little bed and was trapped between it and the wall; I yanked the hassock away to give him the clearance he'd need to get back on his feet. And he just laid there breathing in measured labored gasps. I laid there with him for an hour before he mustered the strength the stand up and walk toward door to go outside. Once he'd returned to his bed he attempted thrice to pull himself up onto it, but just couldn't get his back legs to do it... so of course I helped him. That was the last time I saw my dog conscious.
Today my father took Chapin to be put to sleep. He, unbeknownst to me, hadn't eaten anything in three days and the time I got him to go out was one of the few times he'd even been awake this weekend. When he was asleep it was obvious that the end was nigh, and when he was awake he was yowling in pain.
I know it was the right thing to do, I know it was the humane thing to do. But I loved my dog so much, and it sucks; and hurts. This house feels cold and empty without him here.
Thank you Chapin for having been a part of my life these last fourteen years... I will miss you so terribly much. I love you.