I thought we had more years. I missed the timeline.
Cancer sucks.
Every day, she would greet us with a gift in her mouth (stuffed animal, piece of paper, whatever was near her) that she would carry, waddling around, tail spinning, with squinty eyes, moaning and talking until you had a free hand to touch her and thank her for her gift. Only then could life go on.
She was a homebody and vomited at the start of every trip, but loved hiking and running the trails.
She was a watcher of chickens.
A sleeping bag hog.
She didn't like to share her bed.
And was polite at the table.
She was a great protector of this house. And very particular about who could get close to her.
Most of all she mirrored the grumpy man who lives in this house. She was him, in dog form. He saved her and never doubted she should live with us, even when she tore through my outdoor gear, three crates, (including one that was reinforced with airplane materials), turned on the hot water and flooded the house, ate the corner of a wall, learned to open closed doors, broke more dishes than I can count and was a dog that hikers would circle wide to avoid on the trail. They both mellowed with age and had a natural rhythm in their daily routine. I was her caregiver and adventure/hiking buddy, but he understood her and she was his girl.
