I had to put down my dog this week. She was 11 1/2 years old, and was, essentially, our first “baby.” I had always thought she’d live to be a really old dog, because she was so energetic and active…but, cancer doesn’t much care about those things. Katie and I got her together, the year we were married, though it was pretty clear over time that Maxie considered herself my dog.
She was a mutt. Played frisbee and fetched, chased squirrels, climbed trees (really, she did), barked at anyone who came near the house, loved to have her ears rubbed and generally did all those things that make a person love their dog — which I did.
She was smart and a really good dog. She was always great around the kids, though I’m sure she resented them — at least until they got big enough to throw her a ball and pet her. She mostly didn’t get into things she shouldn’t (except tissues. she loved tissues), and didn’t annoy the neighbors.
So far the boys are taking it pretty well, and I’m dealing. Being so busy with Christmas probably helps. I’m sure we’ll get another dog someday, but right now we’re getting used to the fact that despite the constant chaos of a 3 child household it seems pretty quiet around here.
