Chester was never happy riding in the car. He was always highly suspicious of whether we were taking him to the vet or the groomer's. He drove me nuts jumping about like a crazed muppet breathing his bad, poodle breath on me.
“Sit! stay!” I would bellow, but to no avail. His desperate body language told me, “Where are we going? Where are you taking me! Tell me, tell me!”
Sometimes I'd say, “We're only going to the groomer's and you'll feel so much better and you'll look so pretty.”
He'd continue to bounce around - his eyes bulging with desperation.
“Okay, I know you hate that stupid blue ribbon they stick on your head,” I'd tried to reassure him. “You don't have to wear it. I'll take it off when you get home.”
Last week, Chester had every reason to be anxious. He was going to the vet's - for the last time. He was thirteen, blind, deaf and incontinent. We knew that having him put down would be enormously difficult for us, but we never expected to be so overwhelmed with grief. Why ever not? He was after all a member of our family for thirteen years.
The first night without him was dreadful. Both my husband and I wept - and he doesn't cry easily - when we saw Chester's favorite tennis ball, food and water bowls on his placemat that read “The World's Greatest Pooch.” The memories of our little fluff ball were so fresh. I expected to feel his little body against the crook of my thigh in the middle of the night, or hear the tag on his collar jingle when he shook himself. It was a funny performance - the shake would begin at his head, work itself down his torso to end with a final tremor of his rear.
We would never again be audience to his “doggie ballet” he loved performing for us on the bed with his cushion, flashing a big grin that bared his over-bitten little teeth. And was he ever an ace ball catcher! Talk about eye-ball-mouth coordination - he was the best.
No dog was showered with more love and pampering than our little, apricot ball of fluff. He died with dignity with his loved ones beside him. The weeping vet's assistant wrapped him in a towel. When we said our final goodbye to him, he looked like he was in a cosy, deep sleep. A couple of days later, Chester and I drove home.
It was his calmest car journey ever, for he was at complete rest on the passenger seat beside me - his ashes in a dear, small, wooden box on which is inscribed on a brass plaque, “Our Beloved Pet.”
