I know I haven't written in a while - 4 weeks to be exact. It's because while I had things I wanted to say, there was one post that needed to be written before I could say anything else, and I wasn't ready to write that post just yet.
You see, as I was finishing up my last post, my 14-year-old dog, Wicket, started aimlessly wandering around the downstairs, seeming confused. The husband and I noticed that his breathing seemed off. Husband offered Wicket a dog treat and for the first time ever, Wicket refused it. We petted Wicket and he walked into his crate and laid down.
He never got back up again.
The next morning, as I was getting dressed, my husband told me that Wicket had passed away in his sleep. And even though I knew it was coming, it still hurt so much.
There were no words. Just tears. Lots of tears.
But a month after losing my sweet furbaby, there are now words. And they need to be written before I can write others.
I adopted Wicket from the shelter when he was 8 weeks old. It was January 15, 1997. I didn't want to pay the pet deposit for my apartment, so my friend Josh, who lived in a house, technically adopted the puppy for me. I had gone to the shelter earlier that day and saw a cage full of puppies, along with their mother. I actually had picked out a different puppy - the runt of the litter - figuring he might be the easiest to care for. When Josh returned to shelter for the adoption, the runt was gone. Josh called me up and asked me what he should do. I told him to use his discretion (Josh wanted to be a vet at that time) and pick out the best pup that was there. As he later told me, he returned to the cage and one black and white spotted puppy came flying up to the door, trying to lick him maniacally.
That puppy was Wicket.
Up until then, I had never had a pet - I had never had to take care of anything other than myself. It was a learning experience. But I took care of Wicket as much as he took care of me. Through thick and thin, Wicket was always there for me, always ready to curl up to me or lick the tears off of my face. I called him, amongst other things, my "baby-dog." He was my furbaby. And I was his mom.
In time, real children came along, and poor Wicket found that he was no longer my priority. He still enjoyed laying at my feet or playing ball in the backyard, and he was always up for a good rawhide. As my kids grew, he loved hanging out underneath the dinner table and I found I never had to worry about cleaning up the floor!
But time kept moving forward, and my baby-dog grew older. The dog who used to love chasing tennis balls for hours started having trouble running. He stopped caring about squeaky toys. He stopped being as excited about eating. His black muzzle and spots started becoming more and more white. He slowed down.
And then, one night, he stopped.
It's been almost one month since I hugged his lifeless body and kissed his head, saying goodbye. And even now, one month later, there are tears rolling down my face as I write this post. The pain is not as sharp, not as acute, but it is still there. The loss still hurts.
He was my sweet boy, my Wicket-Ewok, my insane ball dog. He was the dog who attacked a watermelon and barked at a jalapeno pepper. He was the dog who let me hold him tight after I lost my first pregnancy. He was the dog who protected me when we were confronted by an off-leash dog on a trail.
He was my dog. And now he is gone.
Gone, but not forgotten.
I love you Wicket. Thank you for sharing your life with me. I will never forget you.
Rest in peace.
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