Little dogs were yippy. They nip one's fingers. Moreover, you couldn't roughhouse with them like you could big dogs. And we were a mid-sized and big dog family. So who needed those lousy little ankle-biters?
As time passed, I learned the basic lesson that while breed can bring certain traits to a dog's personality, it needn't be the sole determining factor. I learned that my relatives didn't have lousy dogs, but rather my relatives were lousy masters.
Acknowledging this intellectually was one thing. But even so, I still held fast to my distaste for the small creatures. Because, uh... well... You couldn't wrestle with them! Also: they couldn't replace the giant warm ball of love cuddled up next to you on the couch. So, in summation, they may be fine and good for some people. But I was not one of them.
Then my aunt came to stay with my great-grandmother. Along with her she brought her new puppy, a Pomeranian, just out of his first year. His name was Buffy.
It didn't make sense to us either. But then, my aunt was crazy. Moving on...
He was a cute enough little guy. Made even more so by the fact that his fur was kept closely cropped, making him resemble more of a tiny bear than a fuzzball.
After a time, my aunt decided it was time for her to move back to Arizona. She also came to the conclusion that she couldn't care for Buffy any longer. Luckily, Great-Grandma Lela was only too happy to take him in. And, cliché. or not, he was her faithful companion until the day she left us, far too soon, at the tender age of 96. My grandfather, Lela's son, took Buffy as his own. Grandma was not pleased. At best she had tolerated Buffy and referred to him as "that damned dog" in the way only a vexed mid-western grandmother can. But in time he melted even her heart.
He was extremely smart. Clever even. He made us laugh time and again. His personality sparkled and he won strangers over on sight, marked by sharp intakes of breath followed by the inevitable squeal "Isn't he precious???" He was a spirited angel who no one can ever recall having barked or whined. He was simply the family's silent member who would bring you a ball or fall asleep on your lap depending on your mood. And you know what? He didn't hog the couch like our other dogs. We even shortened his name to the (slightly) more masculine "Buff".
And we loved him.
His health had degenerated over the last few years. Cataracts had whitened his eyes and he was hard of hearing. Lately, he'd taken to relieving himself wherever he happened to be standing. He didn't even bother to left his leg anymore. But he was our Buff, and we cleaned up after him without anger. After all, he'd paid his dues. He'd been with us nearly 15 years.
Today, Mom texted me that Grandpa was putting Buffy down.
My heart broke.
That little old man was just in too much pain. Quality of life was questionable. So, with that in mind, my grandfather, one of the strongest men I have ever known, willingly severed that final living tie he had with his mother, a woman... I just can't. I'll just say she was saintly and finish this... Grandma held him on the way there. And on the way back.
So now, I sit here crying while I type this. It's therapeutic, right?
Shit.
This sucks.
All I want is my little dog.
