And then, there were two

In 2006,  Aaron asked us to take his dog.

He and his wife had separated and he took the dog to his parents' house because he thought the dog would be cared for better there. Turns out they couldn't care for him. He was too big, a handful, he needed a house with kids and running and yard and big dogs like himself instead of teacup yorkies.

So he asked, and we said yes. I long ago said that this alone gets me into heaven, or at least into the BFF with Dogs book that will make God smile on me. We always joked around that we got the kid in the divorce.

It was a big undertaking. We had just gotten Brodie, and let me tell you...  three dogs is a lot of dogs. Two has a certain dynamic. Jack and Brodie were doing great together as siblings. Jack and Gonzo had always gotten along beautifully. Brodie and Gonzo really didn't hit it off.

Things were challenging, and there were days when I wanted to give either Brodie or Gonzo away (never Jack. I would never give him away. He's the best dog ever).

We did good by Gonzo.

He was the smartest dumb dog I've ever known. His vocabulary was vast. He understood intonation and could never be tricked by being told one thing when we meant another. He was a master thief of anything left on the kitchen counter, and raided the garbage barrels in the house with unrelenting energy. We had to keep our trash up on shelves in the bathroom, and the kitchen trash locked up.

In the past couple years both he and Jack have slowed down. And then two weeks ago, Gonzo just slowed all the way down.

He died at home with Doug and Geoff by his side. Doug was going to take him to the vet, but then decided it would be too late even if they rushed there. So they patted him. Doug held him. He stopped breathing on the living room floor. And that was that.

This was a dog who loved to swim, who loved to get sticks, who would find tennis balls long lost under the couch and then try his hardest to get them. This was a dog who I think never really ever TASTED food. I called him Hoover, Kirby, Dyson... This was a dog who would bless me with his presence once in a while up on our bed or on the couch, and always took the right amount of real estate up without being a hog.  He hated fireworks and thunder. And he sure hated chickens one hot summer day in July when he and Geoff went for a walk at Farmer Matt's house.

It is weird to not be barked at when I come home, so that I can yell back "I live here, stupid!" at him and then scratch him on the head. I'm going to miss you, dopey dog.  Thanks for being my weird friend for all these years. You were a ton of fun.