Of Loss and Remembrance
Speaking of remembrance, I read another blog and what happened to that person reminded me of my own experience. The sad experience of losing a loved and cherished pet way before its time.
My parents went with my Aunt to see a litter of puppies that were advertised. They picked up a little black ball of fur, chihuahua and fox terrier mix, and turns out it was the runt of the pack. Yes, he was very cute.
He was like a mix breed of all sorts of animals. His tail, when he was awake and active, curled like a pig’s, not extremely but noticeably and wouldn’t straighten unless he was sleeping. He stretched like a cat and enjoyed playing with a ball of yarn, batting it around. When he peed or pooped, he’d kick dirt and grass over his excrement. He pranced around like a little horse.
There was something slightly wrong with his tear ducts and he’d tear a bit every so often, and we’d have to wipe off the tears or they’d build up. A tooth on his left side either jutted out a little bit further than normal or it was a quirk of his that ended up with his mouth rising just a little bit on the left side. Almost like a smirk.
Of all that, the multitude of names we could’ve gave him was enormous. But I called him Mochi Boy and that stuck (so to speak). As he grew older, the little tufts of white grew larger and I reflected that maybe I should’ve called him Musubi instead.
Mochi Boy was also quite intelligent and when he understood what you were talking about, he’d tilt his head to the side (like you see some dogs in tv shows and commercials do, but much more frequently). He knew all his toys and learned some basic doggie training things very quickly that my parents took him to.
He knew exactly when I should be waking up and he’d scratch at my bedroom door to rouse me. It was ritual for him to jump on my bed and wait while I got ready for school (and then work). Then he’d follow me to the garage door and see me off. Sure, he got a treat but our other dog wouldn’t do all that and would just appear when I was ready to leave, grabbed the treat given and then putter off. Mochi Boy would wait until I closed the door.
It was so ritual that I would only spend a few minutes petting him and then say “Come on,” as I headed out. But on that day, I spent more time with him petting and playing. I just felt I needed to spend more time with him and say something I rarely ever said.
I never got to say goodbye, but I did get to say “I love you.”
