Once, thirteen years ago, we saved a pure-bred Britney Spaniel puppy from being put to sleep because she had a black nose (instead of brown) and short hair (instead of long). For years and years, she menaced. She chewed. She ate things dogs aren't supposed to eat. Things like socks, bags of Hershey's chocolate, underwear, plastic bags, fleece scraps, and various other things potentially harmful for dog digestion.
In our younger years, we dressed her up in doll clothes, hot-glued colored ribbons on her ears for holidays, pulled whiskers from her chops, poked, prodded and dragged her (nicely) around like a stuffed toy. She camped with us, went on road trips with us, made home videos with us, and slept with us.
She got a bone each Christmas and scraps from the dinner table each night.
When we moved to the country, she'd disappear for hours at time, running through corn fields and chasing pheasants. She was always the fastest. She always came back.
She was a dog of tricks, with a long list of feats.
Then one day, she got old. And her face turned gray and last time I was home, she snored all day, even when she was awake.
Last Friday afternoon, Sunny left home for the last time.
And we all lost a sibling.
My father lost a child.
There is something to be said about a good dog.
Families are, after all, forever. And I would like to think she waits for us in heaven.
