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| Ironhorse |
 Posted: Sun Oct 04, 2009 11:29 am |
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Joined: 04 Oct 2009
Posts: 2
Location: South Central Missouri
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I remember when I first saw you, it was just before Christmas in 1995. You were in your whelping box, having just been born a few weeks before. My friends had rescued your parents, and I was given pick of the litter. I stuck my head close to the whelping box and went “Woof!,” and of all the puppies, this tiny little white fluff ball toddled to the front and barked back at me. I said “That's my dog!”
So, just weaned, you came home with me. Little did I know how prophetic the words “That's my dog” would be. From day one you were MY dog. You would tolerate others, but the only one you would ever really listen to was me.
Your father was a Samoyed, and your mother was a small, solid black German Shepherd, but somehow your fathers' genes won out and there you were, a solid white dog – but you got your mothers size, so you ended up looking like a small Samoyed, or a large American Eskimo. I chose you because of your disposition, not your beauty, although you grew to be a truly beautiful boy.
Your favorite toy was a tennis ball. God, how you loved them. I remember the cat-like way you would bat them back and forth with your paws – an activity I came to call “Tigger Soccer,” which you could amuse yourself with for hours on end. I remember when you used to sleep under the covers with me on cold Winter nights, as a puppy.
You moved all around the country with me. Your first home was Long Beach, Ca., then to Apple Valley, Ca., Victorville, Ca., Plainview Tx., Elsinore, Ca., back to Apple Valley, Ca., again, to a different home in Apple Valley, to Desert Hot Springs, Ca., and finally to the last home you'd ever know, in West Plains, Mo.
You were there with me through the deaths of my Mother, Grandfather, and Grandmother. You were with me for the breakup of a marriage, a few relationships, and at some of the lowest points in my life, you were the only one I could talk to, and you would always listen.
I think our time in Desert Hot Springs were some of the best of your later life. There, where I worked maintenance, you became the “shop dog,” and would ride around on the golf cart with me and Don, my co-worker and friend, and greet the customers, their children, and their animals. You delighted in greeting everybody, playing with their animals, and loved all the attention you got.
When we got to West Plains, you were about 11 years old. I started to see age taking it's toll on you. Arthritis was setting in, and you were slowing down. I started to watch you closer, and together we fought the arthritis as best we could.
On Friday, October Second, 2009, you were a month and 3 days away from your 14th birthday. You'd been having a really hard day, and I was despairing. Late that afternoon I looked out at you, and I knew the time had come to keep the promise I'd made to myself and to you – namely: that I wouldn't keep you here, suffering, out of my own selfish desire to have my beautiful boy with me.
We got the vet to come in after hours, and you took your final car ride. I was a wreck – I was going to have to say goodbye to my beautiful boy. As you sat there (with me helping hold you up, your poor legs weren't up to the task, anymore) you licked my face, and continued licking as the Doctor shaved your leg, inserted the syringe, and pressed the plunger. You showed your love for me right up until your very last breath, comforting me as I wept, knowing this was your last moment. You drew your last breath in my arms, with me kissing you and telling you much I loved you.
I'd like to think that on some level you knew what was going to happen, and were telling me it was O.K. I miss you constantly, and so does Bobo. He was your constant companion since you were about a year old, and he seems lost without you.
I was always proud of you, my beautiful boy. The way you walked like a champ on a leash, but never really needed one, as you stayed with me and would do whatever I asked. Your gentle way with people, children, and all other animals. I was always proud of the way you looked when I kept my side of the bargain and kept you groomed. You were one of those “once in a lifetime” animals, and it was my privilege to be your friend. I hope some day we can see each other again.
Rest in peace, buddy. Tigger (November 5th, 1995 – October 2nd, 2009)  |
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| MissHim |
| Posted: Tue Oct 06, 2009 9:53 am |
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Joined: 02 Nov 2007
Posts: 130
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a beautiful story and tribute to your boy. he sounds gorgeous. sorry about short typing now but i just cracked a finger bone in a fall and cant type well with one hand.
i had a couple of silver and black shepherds...wonderful friends. i know how you feel...i was there with mine..had each over 10 years but lost my one in a lifetime to cancer and the other girl to spinal cord injury. you can see my girl on my bed with her red ball in another's topic in grief, 2nd to last post on page 1 of ..i miss you bossy dog...
i was showing her picture to someone who also recently lost her dog.
your story made me cry again...it was a wonderful tribute. |
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| Ironhorse |
| Posted: Mon Oct 12, 2009 9:05 am |
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Joined: 04 Oct 2009
Posts: 2
Location: South Central Missouri
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Thank you for your kind words, and empathy. Losing a pet always hurts. Losing a "once in a lifetime pet" hurts even more. I just went and picked up Tigger's ashes this morning. A friend of mine, who is an artist and sculptor is making me a special urn for Tigger.
Writing his memorial was therapeutic for me. It was a way to pour out my emotion via the written word, and start the healing process. I still have a long way to go, and I think I'll always miss him, but all journeys, no matter how long, start with a single step. |
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| MissHim |
| Posted: Mon Oct 12, 2009 11:31 am |
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Joined: 02 Nov 2007
Posts: 130
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a special urn................it sounds so fitting.
I still have a long way to go, and I think I'll always miss him, but all journeys, no matter how long, start with a single step.
we will always have a long way to go because yes, we do miss them always..and forever.
all healing truly begins with a single step...you are on the right path. |
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