Saying goodbye to Sandy...

I wrote this over at Mom's the Word-but needed to post here too, just for our own little scrapbook, and here-I can say that it's been killing me how much I miss our Sandy.  :(  It's hitting me really hard, his passing.  I've been trying to work through it, wondering exactly why. As I looked at a picture of Sandy, Windy, and Ringo, and realized they were all gone, I wondered if I was sad for that time of our life being gone, too-the beginning part of our life, the puppy part of our life.  He was the last link we had to that-and I think that's what's making me so sad.  I know it's specifically Danielle sappy to say that, but it's true...and that's all I have to say about that, but here's what I have to say about Sandy....

just a boy and his dog

That's what my friend used to say when she watched them. They played frisbee, hide and seek, and tag. They walked to the mailbox together, cooked brisket together, and watched NASCAR together. They sang at the moon, raced to the phone, and swam in the lake. Man's best friend? Or Dog's best friend? Honestly, it was hard to tell.


He was a member of a family, a son, a brother, a friend. It sounds cliche, and I know completely sappy, but it's just so very very true. I know because that boy is Todd, and that dog was our Sandy.

We adopted him about eleven years ago, and will love him always. We had dinner plans at a friend's house the day we brought hime home, but instead of leaving him in a crate or the backyard, we brought him with us. He snuggled in our laps through dinner, and that small moment defined our relationship. He was never the dog that had to stay home, because he was always invited-always welcome to come along. We went on daily walks, picnics, roadtrips to College Station (and Decatur), Petsmart, and trips to the lake (complete with boat rides). He was more than a part of us; he was our family. He'd bark at me when I woke my husband for work, so much that the phrase "it's time to get up" would send him into fits. He'd run all over the house looking for the phone when it rang (mostly because I was running, too). He'd dump his food out everyday in the hopes that he would find a treat waiting underneath all that crappy dog food. He'd passively aggressively growl at other dogs only to practically smile at us when we caught him in the act. We called him the fun police, because he always had a handle on just how much laughing would be allowed. He'd "load up" in the car any time we asked, always ready for an adventure.

And boy, did we take him on an adventure. He met three newborns, and lived in four houses in his little life. He bonded with our old collie, the best cat in the world, and two other cats. He put up with other dogs that came in and out of his life, always opting for my husband or some other human for real companionship-because he was so much more than a dog. In our eyes, he was practically human, and he howled to let us know he agreed.

Eleven years is a long time in dog years, and I knew the end was coming. His health had been declining since this summer; he had arthritis and gingerly made his way around the house. He slept a lot, and had lost his hearing. He had stopped "loading up." I think he had a little Alzheimer's, too. We'd find him in odd places of the house-places he'd never hung out before, and when we did, he looked at us like we we were the crazy ones. But, he'd still play hide-and-seek; he'd still bark if I tried to wake my husband up for work. He was still our Sandy-until last Monday when, to me, his eyes seemed a little sad. We took him to the vet because we needed advice, and they diagnosed him with cancer-telling us that yes, he might be in pain, and we should think about saying goodbye.

We brought him home that night, watching and knowing we needed to make a decision, but just torn by how to do that. We didn't know it then, but before the night was over, he'd make the choice for us. The three of us spent the night in the living room, petting Sandy, remembering the life he shared with us, and shedding tears of goodbye. We were at the vet at 8 a.m. the next morning, and without saying a word, they knew. She asked me if I wanted to stay with him, and I managed to ask if they could come out to the car-we had a special place to bury him at home. Strangers hugged me, patted my shoulder, and looked at me with pain and understanding. We held him as he drifted off, thanking the vet, and silently driving home. We buried him next to our Windy, and each remembered our favorite thing about Sandy-the hide and seek, the howling, the dumping of food, the barking when we returned home. Todd and I remembered the day we brought him home the first time, how we instantly fell in love, and how he shared eleven years with us. We've been married only thirteen, so it's hard to imagine our life without him. I still look for him when I pull in the driveway, when I wake up in the morning, or when I'm running for the phone. I'm wondering if I always will; if I'll look around for the "fun police" when the kids are getting a little too loud, or if I'll expect to see him trotting beside Todd as he goes to check the mail-just a boy and his dog. I know he was a special dog, for a special time in our life, and he will live in our hearts-forever.