One Year Later

 It's been a year since Custer left us.

That night is one I'll sadly never forget.  Custer was standing there and then, like a cow tipping over, fell on his side without being pushed.  We rushed him to the veterinarian to find out he had a mass on his heart.  It made little sense to prolong his life only to watch him suffer more, so we made the heartbreaking but correct decision to have him put to sleep.

Little did we know it would be the first of three such decision we'd be called on to make in the space of eight months.

When they brought us in to say goodbye to Custer, he was back to his usual goofy self.  I got down on the floor, barely able to control myself, knowing that I had a few precious moments with the dog who had stolen my heart.  He was bouncy and running back and forth between me and Karen.  Knowing Cus, he was enjoying the attention, unaware of what was about to happen.

Before the vet administered the medicine that would take Cus from us, Cus began licking my face.  Even then I took that as him telling me it was all right, that he understood and wanted me to be OK.  I know that's probably very far from the truth, and perhaps I'm deluding myself, but it's what I felt then and what I feel today.

I miss everything about Cus.  I miss his loud, mature bark that he'd he'd let out when I asked him if he needed to go out to do his business, followed by his whirling like a dervish right by the laundry room door; how he never knocked himself out by whacking his head on the door I'll never know.  I miss his feverish chasing of the beam of light from a flashlight on the floor, or the shine of a metal object reflecting the sun's rays.  I miss his running to the kitchen the minute anyone would open the freezer door, waiting for his tribute of pieces of ice to eat.  I miss his him rolling over on his back for belly rubs.  His hilarious habit of photo-bombing other people's photos always delighted me even if it didn't delight them.  When people would get down on the floor to pet him he took it as an invitation to sit in their lap...which he did, always.  I can't recall a time when I didn't have some of his fur somewhere on my clothes, no matter how hard I tried to keep myself clear of it.  It never bothered me; I always liked taking a part of him with me.

He and his brother-from-another-mother Sherman, who preceded him in death by four years, were the greatest and easiest traveling companions.  It was like traveling with the Beatles.  People would stop and fawn all over them.  Sherman was aloof, which only gave Custer more of the attention he craved.

When we got Cus from, of all places, a Doberman Rescue, he was vastly overweight and covered with mange.  He would destroy cardboard boxes, eat raw potatoes and once, infamously, tore up a feather bolster that I had to clean up with a snow shovel.  If Cus knew he'd done wrong he didn't show it.  He sat behind the pile of feathers as if proud to show us his handiwork.  It was hard to get made at him.

Perhaps one the best memory I have of Custer was when he was still able to follow me to the basement.  When I was done doing whatever I needed to do, I'd ask him if he was ready to go upstairs, and he'd go into dervish mode, twirling and barking until he ran up the stairs.  At the top of the stairs, on the landing, he'd wait for me and then, as I'd reach out to give his face a rub, he'd gently gnaw the pad of my palm.  He never broke the skin.  He just gnawed on my palm until he was done, then we'd go into the house and do whatever we both would do.

Recording all these memories is making me break down.  I'm not ashamed.  I loved that dog.  I still do.

He was my first dog.  Sherman was Karen's dog, and although he and I got along fine, he really was Karen's dog.  But Cus was mine.  Cus-Cus was the goofiest, funniest, most loyal dog I'd ever known.  He was far from perfect, which made him perfect for me.

My lasting regret is that I was too sad to think to ask the vets, before they put him to sleep, for a piece of ice.  Cus would have enjoyed that.  So would I.

Someday, I hope, I'll see Cus again.  I'm thankful I had him in my life and I miss him horribly.

(c) 2021 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles