(no subject)
This Saturday, September 3rd, my family is getting together in Fairfax to say goodbye to a member of our family, and my best friend, Frisky.
Frisky, a white west highland Terrier was born on August 16th, 1990. We got him after a very long drive out to western Virginia on Saturday, October 10th 1990. My parents had not told us we were getting him, but by the time we got there both my brother and I were beside ourselves with glee. Matthew was all of five years old. I would turn ten the following week.
When we entered the house of the breeder we were immediately surrounded by half a dozen white blasts of fur and tails. At this point, only males remained, as all of the females had already been sold. The breeder assured us that male westies were more mild-tempered anyway, particularly around children. My parents were less than convinced. Their apprehension could not come close to squelching the unquestionable love at first sight that my brother and I had already felt for one westie in particular. This small dog, all of about eight inches long and nine pounds soaking wet was by far the most animated of the lot. He was playful and energetic, rambunctious and mischievous.
In the car ride home both Matthew and I were beside ourselves with joy. It was enough work for my father to keep his brand new car on the road. I'm not sure he was especially pleased with the fact that a dog was now jumping around the back seat of the car he had only picked up from the dealership the previous weekend, but I certainly wasn't aware of his frustrations. We now had a puppy, and neither of us could stop screaming with joy.
It was enough for my mother to get my brother and I to be quite enough to discuss a name for him. My father suggested "trigger" after Roy Rogers' legendary horse. I'm not sure who was the first to suggest it, but I would imagine it was my brother said we should name him "frisky." An appropriate adjective and an appropriate name for a dog that, in all of our eyes, never quite grew out of puppy hood.
As he grew, it became apparent that Frisky was not quite like other westies, or even other dogs. He was larger, stronger, and more energetic than other dogs. He made friends quickly, and was prone to showing his affection at all times and in all manners. By his second year he had struck up a great romance with the dog who lived next door, Kipper. The neighborhood children would be over constantly, and Frisky was always at the center of any gathering.
There are a few moments that stick most keenly in my mind when I think of Frisky. When my parents separated, and later divorced, Frisky was the most important member of our family. Each of us clung to him for love and assurance. My parents especially grew very attached to Frisky during that period. When nothing else seemed to be going right between them, they were always able to come together around Frisky.
In 1996, during the largest snowstorm of my lifetime, Frisky was beyond excited. He was practically hysterical at the prospect of playing in the snow. When we let him outside, he immediately became lost in a snow bank. The snow had accumulated to about 18-inches in our backyard, well above his tiny little head. As he traveled through the snow bank he resembled Bugs Bunny burrowing through the ground.
Frisky had been trained, but never particularly well. He was a very smart dog and didn't take well to any instructions that didn't involve playtime. While he was relatively well behaved inside, if the door would happen to be left open he would make a run for it. He became a great white hunter whenever he made it unleashed into the outdoors. The neighbor cats were never safe when he was free. He never caught any of them, and only once got particularly close. The one time that he did get close to one of them, the cat smacked him on the nose. After watching him repeat this over and over, we noticed that he wasn't trying to harm the neighbor cats; he was trying to play with them. Everyone Frisky encountered was a new friend to made, a new playmate to be had.
In recent years Frisky has become increasingly ill. As all dogs do, he's slowed down considerably. As this has happened, though, he seems to have become more quietly affectionate. Not a night went by when he did not sleep on my mother's bed. When he got too old and frail to jump up to the bed, she would pick him up herself. When my brother and I still lived at the house, he would sleep every night in the hallway, equidistant between my mother's, Matthew's, and my bedrooms. He would check on us multiple times while we slept. In the mornings he would excitedly run into each of our rooms to rouse us for a new day. All my mother had to do was say, "Time to wake the big boys up," and he would go leaping from room to room, licking our faces and happily bringing us each back to the land of the living.
The last few months have been physically difficult to Frisky. His back has been increasingly painful. He was unable to eat regular food. In November of last year the veterinarian diagnosed him with prostate cancer. He was given six weeks to live.
Miraculously, the medication he was given shrank the tumor. Frisky began to return, somewhat, to his previous-self. The medication gave him nine more months of life.
He is now in extraordinary pain. He paces back and forth, panting and suffering. He refuses to be in a room alone and anyone who will be near him.
Saturday morning we will take him to the veterinarian and put him to sleep. Hopefully he will understand. Tomorrow we will all be gathering with him to say goodbye. He's going to be taken for as many walks as he wants, have as much to eat as he would like, and be smothered with affection.
Sometime soon I will post some pictures of Frisky over the last 15 years. There are literally hundreds. I will try to find a few that are particularly nice.
- Michael
Frisky, a white west highland Terrier was born on August 16th, 1990. We got him after a very long drive out to western Virginia on Saturday, October 10th 1990. My parents had not told us we were getting him, but by the time we got there both my brother and I were beside ourselves with glee. Matthew was all of five years old. I would turn ten the following week.
When we entered the house of the breeder we were immediately surrounded by half a dozen white blasts of fur and tails. At this point, only males remained, as all of the females had already been sold. The breeder assured us that male westies were more mild-tempered anyway, particularly around children. My parents were less than convinced. Their apprehension could not come close to squelching the unquestionable love at first sight that my brother and I had already felt for one westie in particular. This small dog, all of about eight inches long and nine pounds soaking wet was by far the most animated of the lot. He was playful and energetic, rambunctious and mischievous.
In the car ride home both Matthew and I were beside ourselves with joy. It was enough work for my father to keep his brand new car on the road. I'm not sure he was especially pleased with the fact that a dog was now jumping around the back seat of the car he had only picked up from the dealership the previous weekend, but I certainly wasn't aware of his frustrations. We now had a puppy, and neither of us could stop screaming with joy.
It was enough for my mother to get my brother and I to be quite enough to discuss a name for him. My father suggested "trigger" after Roy Rogers' legendary horse. I'm not sure who was the first to suggest it, but I would imagine it was my brother said we should name him "frisky." An appropriate adjective and an appropriate name for a dog that, in all of our eyes, never quite grew out of puppy hood.
As he grew, it became apparent that Frisky was not quite like other westies, or even other dogs. He was larger, stronger, and more energetic than other dogs. He made friends quickly, and was prone to showing his affection at all times and in all manners. By his second year he had struck up a great romance with the dog who lived next door, Kipper. The neighborhood children would be over constantly, and Frisky was always at the center of any gathering.
There are a few moments that stick most keenly in my mind when I think of Frisky. When my parents separated, and later divorced, Frisky was the most important member of our family. Each of us clung to him for love and assurance. My parents especially grew very attached to Frisky during that period. When nothing else seemed to be going right between them, they were always able to come together around Frisky.
In 1996, during the largest snowstorm of my lifetime, Frisky was beyond excited. He was practically hysterical at the prospect of playing in the snow. When we let him outside, he immediately became lost in a snow bank. The snow had accumulated to about 18-inches in our backyard, well above his tiny little head. As he traveled through the snow bank he resembled Bugs Bunny burrowing through the ground.
Frisky had been trained, but never particularly well. He was a very smart dog and didn't take well to any instructions that didn't involve playtime. While he was relatively well behaved inside, if the door would happen to be left open he would make a run for it. He became a great white hunter whenever he made it unleashed into the outdoors. The neighbor cats were never safe when he was free. He never caught any of them, and only once got particularly close. The one time that he did get close to one of them, the cat smacked him on the nose. After watching him repeat this over and over, we noticed that he wasn't trying to harm the neighbor cats; he was trying to play with them. Everyone Frisky encountered was a new friend to made, a new playmate to be had.
In recent years Frisky has become increasingly ill. As all dogs do, he's slowed down considerably. As this has happened, though, he seems to have become more quietly affectionate. Not a night went by when he did not sleep on my mother's bed. When he got too old and frail to jump up to the bed, she would pick him up herself. When my brother and I still lived at the house, he would sleep every night in the hallway, equidistant between my mother's, Matthew's, and my bedrooms. He would check on us multiple times while we slept. In the mornings he would excitedly run into each of our rooms to rouse us for a new day. All my mother had to do was say, "Time to wake the big boys up," and he would go leaping from room to room, licking our faces and happily bringing us each back to the land of the living.
The last few months have been physically difficult to Frisky. His back has been increasingly painful. He was unable to eat regular food. In November of last year the veterinarian diagnosed him with prostate cancer. He was given six weeks to live.
Miraculously, the medication he was given shrank the tumor. Frisky began to return, somewhat, to his previous-self. The medication gave him nine more months of life.
He is now in extraordinary pain. He paces back and forth, panting and suffering. He refuses to be in a room alone and anyone who will be near him.
Saturday morning we will take him to the veterinarian and put him to sleep. Hopefully he will understand. Tomorrow we will all be gathering with him to say goodbye. He's going to be taken for as many walks as he wants, have as much to eat as he would like, and be smothered with affection.
Sometime soon I will post some pictures of Frisky over the last 15 years. There are literally hundreds. I will try to find a few that are particularly nice.
- Michael