Flakey was crazy. He hated other dogs. He wasn't fond of most people. But Flakey was never a dull dog. Crazy you know. Until recently when he began to strain while peeing , had trouble with his back leg, and began to do a lot of sleeping. Last July, he was diagnosed with prostate cancer and given a month or two. He made it 11. Today I had to put my friend to sleep.
Flakey was a rescue dog. A West Highland Terrier to be exact. His past is a mystery but with his "PF" tattoo it isn't hard to figure he was a puppy farm inhabitant. My Mom had just lost her dog, Callie, to a heart attack in the kitchen and was urged to get a companion. Callie was a lap dog, dumb as a box of rocks, but sweet and loving. Flakey was at the pound. We went to see him. She balked. He was gone the next day. A week later I was scouting for a dog for her and Voila! Flakey was back. I called her and urged her to come get him. She balked again. The next day he was gone again. Another few days passed and in my quest to find her a dog, again, Voila! Flakey was back again with stitches over his eye from being nailed by a car. This time Mom said yes, and we took him to her house. Flakey was her friend for the rest of her life. And mine. Mom often said she didn't like the fact he liked me more than her. I doubt that was true but I was the one who came over and walked him and took him for rides. When she died, I inherited Flakey and he became mine. Kindred spirits so to speak. Crazy loners.
It's so strange how dogs affect your life. If I told you I had a crazy dog who attacks other dogs, runs away when given the opportunity, got hit by cars who knows how many times, didn't stop barking at strangers ever, tore up couches and was a real pain in the ass sometimes, would you want him? Mom did, I did,and the rest is pleasant history. He affected my life and I am better for it.
The dog by which all others are judged is Pete, our childhood dog. Saint Pete I often referred to him as when Mom complained Flakey sat on her couch looking out the window (Pete did that), when he would bark uncontrollably at doorbells and strangers (Pete did that), cocked his head to the side when asked a question (Pete did that), went batshit crazy when his leash was taken out of the drawer (Pete did that). Flakey was Pete. I'm not sure she ever got that.
Flakey was restless last night. He couldn't get comfortable. He was climbing on me and panting. He was unable to stand when I let him outside. He was reeling like a punch drunk fighter and falling. It was time. Oh how I resisted this day. I'd never had the guts to take a dog on that last ride. I had to.
At the hospital Flakey was in my arms and when he saw two other dogs his head suddenly popped up for a second to tell them I don't like you, but his head dropped back. They sedated him, I said goodbye, he looked in my eyes and laid his head back down, and then it was done. Flakey had moved on. It was so tough to keep myself together.I failed. I cried all the way home.
I hope to God there's something beyond this polluted world. I hope the whole rainbow bridge tale is true. I hope my Mom and Flakey are together again. I really do.
Will Rogers said it best, "If there are no dogs in heaven, then when I die I want to go where they went". Me too.
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