It’s been one year since Puck died. She was probably one of the most disgusting dogs you'd ever meet. On our very first encounter, she jumped up on my chest and smeared feces down my shirt. I told my fiancé Jared that I didn't like that dog. He said I would eventually. I spent the rest of the day in my soon-to-be father-in-law’s old police academy t-shirt, the collar ripped and holey.
She ate everything in sight: duct work, cockroach poison, Christmas fudge, tin foil, and once a fragrant mix of old peppermints and coffee grounds that on their unfortunate reappearance caused a stench so offensive my daughter Jubilee and I had to leave the house for half the day.
She fell down the stairs once and landed on her neck; she lost control of her bladder and peed everywhere. I just knew she was dead. It scared me so bad, I laid over her body like Elijah did with the widow’s son and begged God to save her. If ever there was a Holy Ghost meeting over a dog, it happened that day. I knew she was okay when she ate the popcorn I had spilled while I prayed her spirit back to earth.
Vet trips were a nightmare. The vet offered to give us a sedative to give Puck before we brought her in, but it was a shot, and I couldn't figure out how in the world you give a dog that's hopped up like a meth head on a three day binge a SHOT. Instead I asked if they could prescribe a sedative for me. Eventually a veterinarian came to the house and muzzled her, gave her a shot in her leg, and finally was able to trim her toe nails.
She broke her tail twice. TWICE. Her feet stunk like Fritos, and she could not control the swift mist of boogers that flew out of her face when she was excited.
She was loud, obnoxious, and the finest dog I have ever known.
She was a faithful friend and protector in all her ways. I left the door open once and when a pack of Jehovah's witnesses dared to climb down our steep driveway and try to win me for their kingdom she was ready to strike. As soon as their feet hit the porch, she slammed herself into the screen door and growled so fiercely that the would-be missionaries took off running hard and fast up our driveway like Cerberus himself was after them.
Good thing I hadn't left the screen unlatched.
While I was pregnant with my first born, she was my shadow. I didn't leave a room unless Puck was with me, and once Jubilee was born, she was a curious and patient friend to our daughter. She took care of us. I guess that's what the best dogs do.
On New Year's Day, she started acting a little pitiful. My husband and I took turns babying her, coaxing her outside to go do her business. After a couple of days, I took her to the vet. They had no real answers but 1100 dollars later, they assured me the medicine they gave her would help her eat and feel better until the tests came back.
In spite of their assurances, she didn't want to eat. In fact, she refused a hotdog, which is to nearly every dog on the planet a true and irresistible delicacy. I knew then, she was telling us she was ready to go.
I was angry. How dare she? But honestly the grief she caused in death was very much like the grief she caused in life: expensive, maddening, and inconvenient.
So we made her a little bed in the bathroom with a little heater to keep her warm. I sat with her and read to her from Psalms because that's what you do when someone you love is sick. The righteous cry, and the Lord heareth, and delivereth them out of all their troubles. The Lord is nigh unto them that are of a broken heart; and saveth such as be of a contrite spirit.
I told her she didn't have to stay for me and Jared or my first born or for the sweet baby girl I carried in my womb. I honestly believe that was why she held on. For me. For my girls. I told her we would be okay. She could go.
But she didn't. She stayed and it broke my heart. I prayed. I begged God to please just let her go to sleep and drift off. But that Puck...she was stubborn. She hung on and on. I told my husband, who I was half mad at because if he hadn't brought that little poop-smearing wild thing into my life I wouldn't be feeling all this pain, that if she couldn't let go, we would have to help her along. My heart couldn't bear it anymore.
I found a vet’s office that was open on a Sunday, and I made the arrangements. My husband said he would take her, and I could stay with our daughter. He didn't want me to cry anymore.
The jokes on you I told him because I can cry at home. And I did.
He brought her back home and we buried her behind our house, and I can see her grave from my kitchen window. It was weeks before I could stand to look out there. A song kept rolling thru my head: On heavens bright shore/ they'll be no more dying over there/not one little grave in all that fair land.
The very next day, the first vet we went to called with the test results. She asked how Puck was and I broke down telling her about the events of the weekend. She said that we did the hard and right thing because lymphoma in dogs is particularly nasty and it moved quickly.
That much I knew. It was six days total that we knew she was sick. Six days. An eternity.
We have another dog. He’s better looking. Infinitely more obedient. Super sweet. He is wonderful.
But he is no Puck. She was a fine dog.
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