Post by gfountain on Jun 14, 2015 15:30:11 GMT -5
October 10, 2001. That was the day I first laid eyes on you. The four of us walked between runs full of tail-wagging, tumbling, wiggly-squirmy yippy puppies, and then we came to yours. There you sat amongst the noise and chaos, a stoic, solid, unmoving silvery-gray shape in the middle of a long concrete and gravel enclosure. “This is the one,” she said. “I wanted to keep him for a stud because of his unusual color, but I noticed last week that he has something wrong with his back legs so I’m going to put him down.” The seven-year-old blonde girl with us had passed by dozens and dozens of beautiful, animated pups with hardly a glance, but now she dropped to her knees in front of you. “This is the one,” she said quietly. “This is the one I want.” I wouldn’t have chosen you. Her dad didn’t want you. “I don’t know,” we said. “He has bad legs. He won’t be able to run and play with you.” Never turning her eyes from your face, she replied. “I don’t care. He needs us, and this is the one I want. What’s his name?” It was King – Ransom’s Mighty King.
You came home with us that day, riding on her lap, stiff and unmoving. You had no expression on your face. You didn’t wag your tail. You didn’t look around curiously at all the new things you were seeing. You just sat, staring straight ahead. Her dad and I looked at each other, wondering what she had seen in you that we didn’t see. We took you into the house, she put you down and for the first time, we saw a reaction. You shifted your weight and looked down at the unfamiliar surface beneath your feet. What was this stuff? It felt… strange. You stood up, moved an inch and sat back down stiffly as if the carpet fibers were going to hurt you. And there you stayed. No curiosity about your new home. No interest in anything around you. Just blankly staring ahead and sitting stiffly.
The girl’s grandparents lived next door. The girl called them, “Come see what I got.” They brought Spenser with them. Your eyes shifted to him and for the first time since we met you, we saw a spark of curiosity. Spenser was excited, a black ball of fluff bouncing around you, barking and inviting you to play. He circled you, yipping in a high-pitched voice. You remained in your spot but turned, watching him, trying to decide what you should do. Then you woofed, once, deep in your chest, and it was such a low voice that it startled all of us. You didn’t play, but you showed interest in something and the girl said, “See, he’s going to be happy here. He just needs us to love him.”
“I don’t like the name King,” she said. “It doesn’t fit him.” She spent days trying out different names until she settled on Toby. “Ransom’s Mighty King Tobias,” she said. “But I’m going to call him Toby. Toby fits and he likes it.” How could she tell? You had no personality. Frosty or Aloof would have suited you better. You ate, you slept, and you sat stiffly in the middle of the floor. You were just there, a stoic, solid, unmoving silvery-gray shape. But now you were a shape with a name - Toby.
We made an appointment with the vet. You could walk, but your back end wobbled and your knees buckled with each step. “Ten months in a concrete and gravel prison,” the vet said. “That’s what has done this to him.” He gave us vitamins and an exercise regimen. “He needs to strengthen those muscles. Take him outside and let him walk in the grass and play in the leaves.” You hated the grass. You were scared of the leaves. You didn’t know how to play. And again we wondered, WHY did she choose you?
Fast forward 3 weeks. “Watch us, mommy.” And off she went, running through the yard, you wobbling after her, lifting your feet high to keep them off the grass. She picked you up and carried you to the driveway where you would be more comfortable. She bent down and talked earnestly to you for a moment then ran back to the house, with you running – running! – right beside her. You were awkward, but you were running. “See, mommy, he’s going to be fine!” And she was right. You never learned to like the grass, but you learned to run and jump, you learned to play, you learned to enjoy life.
And your life was good. Your girl was a reader and you liked nothing better than to curl up beside her or stretch out upside down on her lap and read with her. You liked to go for walks outside, as long as you could stay on the pavement while she roamed through the grass. If she got too far away, though, you would bravely set out after her, stepping high so the grass wouldn’t tickle your feet. The first time we went somewhere in the car with the windows down, you learned the exhilaration of wind in your face. Ears flapping in the wind, you would squint your eyes and lean out as far as the girl would allow, snuffling up the air joyfully. You and Spenser would chase each other through our house or his, Spenser yipping-yapping and you woofing with your deep voice. Then you would collapse on top of each other, panting happily. You would run pell-mell down the road with your big mouth wide open, tongue lolling out, eyes bright with excitement to meet your girl. You looked like Oscar the Grouch in those moments. I’ve never seen a dog with such a wide mouth as yours, nor one that opened so far as to look like your head was hinged at the back. You were a happy boy and we all fell in love with you.
Then your life changed. Your girl’s grandma got sick. Spenser came to live with us for 6 months while she had chemotherapy. You helped him adjust to life at our house. You comforted the girl while she worried. You kissed my tears away. And then you celebrated with us when grandma was declared cancer-free. Spenser moved back home, but then your girl’s sister brought home a puppy. Oh, what a pain that dog was. She was given the name Libby, but you and your girl just thought of her as ‘the pest’. She got in the way when you were trying to read. She wanted to run with you, but she tripped over her puppy feet and bowled you over. She interjected herself into your romps with Spenser and you both got tired of her puppy ways. She quickly outgrew you both and she liked to sit on you and pin you down. But while Spenser snapped at her, you were patient with her and you were her hero. As she grew up, she followed your lead in many ways and looked to you for comfort and reassurance when your girls had to leave you alone. She also taught you bad habits, like begging for food. You learned that if you put that little foot up on a knee and cocked your head just so, no one could resist you. You learned that forbidden foods tasted better than what was put in your dish and you learned how to huff. Huff… huff huff. Gently, almost under your breath. That was the signal that you wanted something. Huff, I’m here. Huff huff, how about a bite of that popcorn. Huff, please help me get up on the bed. Huff… huff huff.
One night you decided it was time for you to sleep in ‘the big bed’ and a new ritual began. When your girl went to bed, you went with her, just long enough for her to fall asleep. Then you would start huffing. Huff… huff huff. She’s asleep. Come get me. It’s time to move to the big bed. You would start the night at the foot of the bed and by morning you had squirmed your way up between us until you were wedged and snoring with your head on a pillow. If you woke up first, you would lick. And lick. And lick. Any exposed skin was fair game to you. You licked until we woke up, then you licked some more. And laughed. And licked.
You had such sensitive skin. You were allergic to so many things, chief among them being fleas. How many hours did I spend with you brushing, combing, bathing, battling those little bugs? One bite would leave you in misery for weeks, angry red welts covering you from head to tail. You scratched yourself until you bled. You rubbed and rubbed on everything, searching for relief. You even resorted to eating blankets to relieve the stress from the itching. Wool blankets, cotton blankets, fleece blankets. Then you pooped rainbows in the back yard. We tried everything, every flea product on the market . We would finally find something that worked – for a while. When you started the incessant scratching again, we knew that we had to search some more. You had shots every month to try to keep your allergies in check; you never protested, you never whined. You had to take pills; you just took them, no fussing, no fighting. You were a brave boy and trusted us implicitly. The vet said “No more cortisone. His little body can’t handle any more.” Then the next month, he mistakenly gave us cortisone pills. You took them bravely, trustingly, and they almost killed you. You never complained; I cried and again, you kissed my tears away.
Time passed and your girl grew up. She wanted her senior pictures to include all of the important things in her life. That meant you. You desperately needed a haircut, but she wanted you just as you were. “It’s OK, Mom. I’ll just put it in a ponytail. I like it that way and he doesn’t care.” She was right again. You didn’t care what she did to your hair. She could brush it and pull it and put it in a ponytail, even in pigtails. You suffered that indignity with your usual good grace. And you pulled it off. You even looked good in pigtails, my boy. She graduated and went away to college. The good-bye was hard for everyone, but she was coming home for the weekend. You met her at the door, your now-aging body wiggling with excitement. Every Friday, you sat at the door, waiting. On the weeks she didn’t come home, you slept on the entrance rug all night before reluctantly moving to your favorite spot under the living room table Saturday morning.
We brought home more pests. Ferrets. You didn’t love them. You didn’t hate them. You just tolerated them. They played around you, and on top of you, and you were unruffled. They disrupted your naps. You never complained, just shifted to a new position and went back to sleep. But then I found you curled up napping with one of them. You must have liked them a little bit. I wish you had known them when you were young and full of energy. But by that time, your age was showing.
Your eyesight was failing, your hearing diminished. I found a few teeth on the floor. At 10:00 every night, you got up and went to the bed. Your huffs were turning into wheezes. Huff… wheeze huff. Come on, guys. It’s bedtime. You woke at 4:33 every morning. Wheeze… huff wheeze. I need to go outside please. 4:33, never a minute earlier or a minute later. For months. Then one day, there was a puddle on the floor when we got home. You apologized with eyes that could no longer see my face clearly. You had to relieve yourself every two or three hours, day and night, and we didn’t always make it home in time. The sturdy little legs that carried you joyously through life were getting wobbly again. The wheezes got worse. And the coughing. Coughing that sounded like your chest would cave in. Coughing that wracked your swollen body until you collapsed exhausted in my lap. Congestive heart failure was the diagnosis. “We can try this medicine,” the vet said, “but it may cause his allergies to flare up.” It did. You started scratching again and I couldn’t have that. We had finally gotten your allergies under control and I didn’t want your last months to be itchy. We stopped the pills. We did what we could to keep you happy and comfortable. You couldn’t run and play anymore, but you loved the times the three of us just sat on the swing together. You would sigh deeply and turn your blind eyes toward us to say thank you for bringing me out. You would inhale deeply, sniffing the air, before laying your tired head down on a lap. You started having breakfast with us on the weekends. Every weekend, cheesy scrambled eggs and sausage, your favorites. “It’s not healthy,” the girl protested when she called home. It didn’t matter. It made you happy. You were sleeping the days away, your dad coming home every few hours to take you outside. Round the clock, every few hours. When I got sick, you stayed beside me every minute, mostly sleeping, waking to kiss my hand or my foot before dozing off again. It didn’t matter that your pillow was in the other room or that you were lying on the cold hard floor. You stayed with me and we coughed together. I recovered; you didn’t. Your coughing tore at my heart. Accidents became more frequent. You couldn’t see us. You couldn’t hear us. But I couldn’t let you go. I tried. Your dad tried. We made an appointment to ease your suffering, but when the time came, we couldn’t do it. We knew we had to let you go, but we just couldn’t. There were too many things unsaid and undone. Your girl needed to say good-bye. You needed another ride with your head out the window. You needed to eat as many treats as you wanted, without regard to the consequences. You needed your own bowl of chocolate ice cream. Once all that was done, it was time.
I couldn’t go with you, my boy, and I’m sorry. Daddy had to take you by himself. He cried all the way. Your daddy who doesn’t cry, cried like a baby when he had to let you go. He made you a box just like Spenser’s and he settled you inside it with your pillow and your blanket and he put you on the hillside right beside Spenser. And I cried. For days now, I’ve cried and you're not here to kiss these tears away. I wake every few hours to take you outside and remember all over again that you’re not here anymore. I miss you, my boy. I miss your solid little body on my feet at night. I miss your huffing. I miss your licks and your laughter. Your presence is everywhere in this house. Everywhere I look. In every memory.
Libby looked for you again last night. She checked all your favorite spots but she couldn’t find you. She misses you. We all miss you. My eyes go to your spot every time I walk in the house. And it’s empty. Your spot under the table is empty, as is my heart. My heart is broken and a large part of it is buried on the hillside with you.
The girl is almost 21 now. I called to tell her. “Aw, Mom, I’m gonna miss him. I wasn’t with him for the last few years, but I always knew he was there waiting for me. It’s like my childhood… well… it’s really over now. He was the best one after all, Mommy, wasn’t he? He was the best one I could have chosen.” I wouldn’t have chosen you, Toby, but I’m so glad your girl did. Daddy didn’t want you, but you made him love you. You were so much more than just a stoic, solid, unmoving silvery-gray shape. You were love and joy and happiness all wrapped up in a furry silvery-gray bundle, just waiting to be loved. And we loved you.
I love you, my Toby. Forever.
12/25/2000 – 6/10/2015
You came home with us that day, riding on her lap, stiff and unmoving. You had no expression on your face. You didn’t wag your tail. You didn’t look around curiously at all the new things you were seeing. You just sat, staring straight ahead. Her dad and I looked at each other, wondering what she had seen in you that we didn’t see. We took you into the house, she put you down and for the first time, we saw a reaction. You shifted your weight and looked down at the unfamiliar surface beneath your feet. What was this stuff? It felt… strange. You stood up, moved an inch and sat back down stiffly as if the carpet fibers were going to hurt you. And there you stayed. No curiosity about your new home. No interest in anything around you. Just blankly staring ahead and sitting stiffly.
The girl’s grandparents lived next door. The girl called them, “Come see what I got.” They brought Spenser with them. Your eyes shifted to him and for the first time since we met you, we saw a spark of curiosity. Spenser was excited, a black ball of fluff bouncing around you, barking and inviting you to play. He circled you, yipping in a high-pitched voice. You remained in your spot but turned, watching him, trying to decide what you should do. Then you woofed, once, deep in your chest, and it was such a low voice that it startled all of us. You didn’t play, but you showed interest in something and the girl said, “See, he’s going to be happy here. He just needs us to love him.”
“I don’t like the name King,” she said. “It doesn’t fit him.” She spent days trying out different names until she settled on Toby. “Ransom’s Mighty King Tobias,” she said. “But I’m going to call him Toby. Toby fits and he likes it.” How could she tell? You had no personality. Frosty or Aloof would have suited you better. You ate, you slept, and you sat stiffly in the middle of the floor. You were just there, a stoic, solid, unmoving silvery-gray shape. But now you were a shape with a name - Toby.
We made an appointment with the vet. You could walk, but your back end wobbled and your knees buckled with each step. “Ten months in a concrete and gravel prison,” the vet said. “That’s what has done this to him.” He gave us vitamins and an exercise regimen. “He needs to strengthen those muscles. Take him outside and let him walk in the grass and play in the leaves.” You hated the grass. You were scared of the leaves. You didn’t know how to play. And again we wondered, WHY did she choose you?
Fast forward 3 weeks. “Watch us, mommy.” And off she went, running through the yard, you wobbling after her, lifting your feet high to keep them off the grass. She picked you up and carried you to the driveway where you would be more comfortable. She bent down and talked earnestly to you for a moment then ran back to the house, with you running – running! – right beside her. You were awkward, but you were running. “See, mommy, he’s going to be fine!” And she was right. You never learned to like the grass, but you learned to run and jump, you learned to play, you learned to enjoy life.
And your life was good. Your girl was a reader and you liked nothing better than to curl up beside her or stretch out upside down on her lap and read with her. You liked to go for walks outside, as long as you could stay on the pavement while she roamed through the grass. If she got too far away, though, you would bravely set out after her, stepping high so the grass wouldn’t tickle your feet. The first time we went somewhere in the car with the windows down, you learned the exhilaration of wind in your face. Ears flapping in the wind, you would squint your eyes and lean out as far as the girl would allow, snuffling up the air joyfully. You and Spenser would chase each other through our house or his, Spenser yipping-yapping and you woofing with your deep voice. Then you would collapse on top of each other, panting happily. You would run pell-mell down the road with your big mouth wide open, tongue lolling out, eyes bright with excitement to meet your girl. You looked like Oscar the Grouch in those moments. I’ve never seen a dog with such a wide mouth as yours, nor one that opened so far as to look like your head was hinged at the back. You were a happy boy and we all fell in love with you.
Then your life changed. Your girl’s grandma got sick. Spenser came to live with us for 6 months while she had chemotherapy. You helped him adjust to life at our house. You comforted the girl while she worried. You kissed my tears away. And then you celebrated with us when grandma was declared cancer-free. Spenser moved back home, but then your girl’s sister brought home a puppy. Oh, what a pain that dog was. She was given the name Libby, but you and your girl just thought of her as ‘the pest’. She got in the way when you were trying to read. She wanted to run with you, but she tripped over her puppy feet and bowled you over. She interjected herself into your romps with Spenser and you both got tired of her puppy ways. She quickly outgrew you both and she liked to sit on you and pin you down. But while Spenser snapped at her, you were patient with her and you were her hero. As she grew up, she followed your lead in many ways and looked to you for comfort and reassurance when your girls had to leave you alone. She also taught you bad habits, like begging for food. You learned that if you put that little foot up on a knee and cocked your head just so, no one could resist you. You learned that forbidden foods tasted better than what was put in your dish and you learned how to huff. Huff… huff huff. Gently, almost under your breath. That was the signal that you wanted something. Huff, I’m here. Huff huff, how about a bite of that popcorn. Huff, please help me get up on the bed. Huff… huff huff.
One night you decided it was time for you to sleep in ‘the big bed’ and a new ritual began. When your girl went to bed, you went with her, just long enough for her to fall asleep. Then you would start huffing. Huff… huff huff. She’s asleep. Come get me. It’s time to move to the big bed. You would start the night at the foot of the bed and by morning you had squirmed your way up between us until you were wedged and snoring with your head on a pillow. If you woke up first, you would lick. And lick. And lick. Any exposed skin was fair game to you. You licked until we woke up, then you licked some more. And laughed. And licked.
You had such sensitive skin. You were allergic to so many things, chief among them being fleas. How many hours did I spend with you brushing, combing, bathing, battling those little bugs? One bite would leave you in misery for weeks, angry red welts covering you from head to tail. You scratched yourself until you bled. You rubbed and rubbed on everything, searching for relief. You even resorted to eating blankets to relieve the stress from the itching. Wool blankets, cotton blankets, fleece blankets. Then you pooped rainbows in the back yard. We tried everything, every flea product on the market . We would finally find something that worked – for a while. When you started the incessant scratching again, we knew that we had to search some more. You had shots every month to try to keep your allergies in check; you never protested, you never whined. You had to take pills; you just took them, no fussing, no fighting. You were a brave boy and trusted us implicitly. The vet said “No more cortisone. His little body can’t handle any more.” Then the next month, he mistakenly gave us cortisone pills. You took them bravely, trustingly, and they almost killed you. You never complained; I cried and again, you kissed my tears away.
Time passed and your girl grew up. She wanted her senior pictures to include all of the important things in her life. That meant you. You desperately needed a haircut, but she wanted you just as you were. “It’s OK, Mom. I’ll just put it in a ponytail. I like it that way and he doesn’t care.” She was right again. You didn’t care what she did to your hair. She could brush it and pull it and put it in a ponytail, even in pigtails. You suffered that indignity with your usual good grace. And you pulled it off. You even looked good in pigtails, my boy. She graduated and went away to college. The good-bye was hard for everyone, but she was coming home for the weekend. You met her at the door, your now-aging body wiggling with excitement. Every Friday, you sat at the door, waiting. On the weeks she didn’t come home, you slept on the entrance rug all night before reluctantly moving to your favorite spot under the living room table Saturday morning.
We brought home more pests. Ferrets. You didn’t love them. You didn’t hate them. You just tolerated them. They played around you, and on top of you, and you were unruffled. They disrupted your naps. You never complained, just shifted to a new position and went back to sleep. But then I found you curled up napping with one of them. You must have liked them a little bit. I wish you had known them when you were young and full of energy. But by that time, your age was showing.
Your eyesight was failing, your hearing diminished. I found a few teeth on the floor. At 10:00 every night, you got up and went to the bed. Your huffs were turning into wheezes. Huff… wheeze huff. Come on, guys. It’s bedtime. You woke at 4:33 every morning. Wheeze… huff wheeze. I need to go outside please. 4:33, never a minute earlier or a minute later. For months. Then one day, there was a puddle on the floor when we got home. You apologized with eyes that could no longer see my face clearly. You had to relieve yourself every two or three hours, day and night, and we didn’t always make it home in time. The sturdy little legs that carried you joyously through life were getting wobbly again. The wheezes got worse. And the coughing. Coughing that sounded like your chest would cave in. Coughing that wracked your swollen body until you collapsed exhausted in my lap. Congestive heart failure was the diagnosis. “We can try this medicine,” the vet said, “but it may cause his allergies to flare up.” It did. You started scratching again and I couldn’t have that. We had finally gotten your allergies under control and I didn’t want your last months to be itchy. We stopped the pills. We did what we could to keep you happy and comfortable. You couldn’t run and play anymore, but you loved the times the three of us just sat on the swing together. You would sigh deeply and turn your blind eyes toward us to say thank you for bringing me out. You would inhale deeply, sniffing the air, before laying your tired head down on a lap. You started having breakfast with us on the weekends. Every weekend, cheesy scrambled eggs and sausage, your favorites. “It’s not healthy,” the girl protested when she called home. It didn’t matter. It made you happy. You were sleeping the days away, your dad coming home every few hours to take you outside. Round the clock, every few hours. When I got sick, you stayed beside me every minute, mostly sleeping, waking to kiss my hand or my foot before dozing off again. It didn’t matter that your pillow was in the other room or that you were lying on the cold hard floor. You stayed with me and we coughed together. I recovered; you didn’t. Your coughing tore at my heart. Accidents became more frequent. You couldn’t see us. You couldn’t hear us. But I couldn’t let you go. I tried. Your dad tried. We made an appointment to ease your suffering, but when the time came, we couldn’t do it. We knew we had to let you go, but we just couldn’t. There were too many things unsaid and undone. Your girl needed to say good-bye. You needed another ride with your head out the window. You needed to eat as many treats as you wanted, without regard to the consequences. You needed your own bowl of chocolate ice cream. Once all that was done, it was time.
I couldn’t go with you, my boy, and I’m sorry. Daddy had to take you by himself. He cried all the way. Your daddy who doesn’t cry, cried like a baby when he had to let you go. He made you a box just like Spenser’s and he settled you inside it with your pillow and your blanket and he put you on the hillside right beside Spenser. And I cried. For days now, I’ve cried and you're not here to kiss these tears away. I wake every few hours to take you outside and remember all over again that you’re not here anymore. I miss you, my boy. I miss your solid little body on my feet at night. I miss your huffing. I miss your licks and your laughter. Your presence is everywhere in this house. Everywhere I look. In every memory.
Libby looked for you again last night. She checked all your favorite spots but she couldn’t find you. She misses you. We all miss you. My eyes go to your spot every time I walk in the house. And it’s empty. Your spot under the table is empty, as is my heart. My heart is broken and a large part of it is buried on the hillside with you.
The girl is almost 21 now. I called to tell her. “Aw, Mom, I’m gonna miss him. I wasn’t with him for the last few years, but I always knew he was there waiting for me. It’s like my childhood… well… it’s really over now. He was the best one after all, Mommy, wasn’t he? He was the best one I could have chosen.” I wouldn’t have chosen you, Toby, but I’m so glad your girl did. Daddy didn’t want you, but you made him love you. You were so much more than just a stoic, solid, unmoving silvery-gray shape. You were love and joy and happiness all wrapped up in a furry silvery-gray bundle, just waiting to be loved. And we loved you.
I love you, my Toby. Forever.
12/25/2000 – 6/10/2015
My heart breaks for you. That is one h*ll of a tribute. Thank you for sharing him with us.
