What's the average lifespan for a dog? For an Aussie? I guess it varies from breed-to-breed and always depends on health, and circumstances, etc. The only absolutely sure answer, is that it is simply not enough. Never are they here long enough.
We got Pete from a breeder east of the city, one of nine, all colors. We were first on the list and all we ever wanted was a blue merle. We always knew we'd call him Pete. Petey. Peter-man. Petey-boy. PetePete. I was the recipient of a very happy phone call over the Labor Day weekend in 1996, when Ramona called to say, "congratulations", our puppy had arrived. It was an impossibly long eight weeks until we got to bring him home, and brought him out to our brand new house in Strathmore. Before going home I tucked him up into my jacket and snuck him into Foothills Hospital, up to my office to show him off to the girls I worked with. I was on the service elevator and there was a patient in a wheelchair looking up at this bump in my jacket, and a fuzzy little head that kept popping out. No words, we just exchanged a smile, and shared a secret about the precious cargo I was smuggling in.
We had only been out on the farm a month, so there was always so much to do around the place. I never saw Glenn outside without a little blue fuzzball named Pete trotting along behind him. They were inseparable. And stayed that way, the best of friends, for a short twelve and a half years.
He was such a funny character, learned tricks easily, had an innate sixth sense, and loved almost everybody. He could hear a cheese wrapper open from a mile away, but didn't hear you call him back when he trotted off through the neighbor's fence. And he LOVED the truck. It didn't even have to be moving, he just knew the best place in the world was in the front seat. When Glenn would be out in the pasture fencing or doing whatever kind of chores, he'd leave the door open and Pete would hop in and sit there all day, head over his shoulder, gazing out the back window. We used to tease that if we ever won the lotto we'd buy a truck just for Pete to sit in. In fact, the night before I left for Montana for a couple of days I was vacumning out my van and he parked himself in the front seat and just watched me for quite a while. I'm glad that's the memory I have of him now, the picture that's in my head.
He was always so wonderful with the puppies, patient and playful. Always the first to announce and stand guard over new foals that were born. But I think the "quirk" he's most known for with us, is putting his nose about an inch from yours and just staring into your eyes, while you stared back at him. For that reason, I always thought he would have been a wonderful PALS dog, except he'd probably lift his leg on their wheelchairs -- he liked to do that too, silly guy.
I've recently been discussing with a couple of friends, the life cycles of our canine kids. How difficult it is to watch them grow old, to know they're getting ready to say good-bye, even if we will never be ready. I always comment that we're fortunate as a species to be able to give that final gift, of dignity, of ending their pain and letting them go. And we have to work hard to remind ourselves that our decision to let them go, really is what's best for them, and we should take comfort in that. But comfort in that decision only goes so far and it still hurts like hell when they close their eyes and slip away. When they slip away from us ... but run toward their pals and their people over the bridge. Where there are pastures full of wonderful things to roll in and nobody gets mad at you because you're a little green and smelly. A place that's full of horse hooves for you to chew on and it doesn't matter if you puke them up later. A place where you can chew the odd hole in the drywall and they still smile at you. A place with lots of cheese, and cookies, and TIMBITS. Wow, this place must be Heaven indeed.
Have fun our Petey-boy. And don't rest, you ol' couch potato, you did enough of that. Run and bark and shed all over. It's only dog hair. We love you, bud. And if you ever see the truck door open ... hop in.
Happy Trails ... Theresa
We got Pete from a breeder east of the city, one of nine, all colors. We were first on the list and all we ever wanted was a blue merle. We always knew we'd call him Pete. Petey. Peter-man. Petey-boy. PetePete. I was the recipient of a very happy phone call over the Labor Day weekend in 1996, when Ramona called to say, "congratulations", our puppy had arrived. It was an impossibly long eight weeks until we got to bring him home, and brought him out to our brand new house in Strathmore. Before going home I tucked him up into my jacket and snuck him into Foothills Hospital, up to my office to show him off to the girls I worked with. I was on the service elevator and there was a patient in a wheelchair looking up at this bump in my jacket, and a fuzzy little head that kept popping out. No words, we just exchanged a smile, and shared a secret about the precious cargo I was smuggling in.
We had only been out on the farm a month, so there was always so much to do around the place. I never saw Glenn outside without a little blue fuzzball named Pete trotting along behind him. They were inseparable. And stayed that way, the best of friends, for a short twelve and a half years.
He was such a funny character, learned tricks easily, had an innate sixth sense, and loved almost everybody. He could hear a cheese wrapper open from a mile away, but didn't hear you call him back when he trotted off through the neighbor's fence. And he LOVED the truck. It didn't even have to be moving, he just knew the best place in the world was in the front seat. When Glenn would be out in the pasture fencing or doing whatever kind of chores, he'd leave the door open and Pete would hop in and sit there all day, head over his shoulder, gazing out the back window. We used to tease that if we ever won the lotto we'd buy a truck just for Pete to sit in. In fact, the night before I left for Montana for a couple of days I was vacumning out my van and he parked himself in the front seat and just watched me for quite a while. I'm glad that's the memory I have of him now, the picture that's in my head.
He was always so wonderful with the puppies, patient and playful. Always the first to announce and stand guard over new foals that were born. But I think the "quirk" he's most known for with us, is putting his nose about an inch from yours and just staring into your eyes, while you stared back at him. For that reason, I always thought he would have been a wonderful PALS dog, except he'd probably lift his leg on their wheelchairs -- he liked to do that too, silly guy.
I've recently been discussing with a couple of friends, the life cycles of our canine kids. How difficult it is to watch them grow old, to know they're getting ready to say good-bye, even if we will never be ready. I always comment that we're fortunate as a species to be able to give that final gift, of dignity, of ending their pain and letting them go. And we have to work hard to remind ourselves that our decision to let them go, really is what's best for them, and we should take comfort in that. But comfort in that decision only goes so far and it still hurts like hell when they close their eyes and slip away. When they slip away from us ... but run toward their pals and their people over the bridge. Where there are pastures full of wonderful things to roll in and nobody gets mad at you because you're a little green and smelly. A place that's full of horse hooves for you to chew on and it doesn't matter if you puke them up later. A place where you can chew the odd hole in the drywall and they still smile at you. A place with lots of cheese, and cookies, and TIMBITS. Wow, this place must be Heaven indeed.
Have fun our Petey-boy. And don't rest, you ol' couch potato, you did enough of that. Run and bark and shed all over. It's only dog hair. We love you, bud. And if you ever see the truck door open ... hop in.
Happy Trails ... Theresa
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