One of my parents’ dogs died today.
Last week my parents purchased rawhide bones for the dogs. The dogs had an altercation over one of the bones and in the process, Puppy’s leg was broken in multiple places. The vet said she needed surgery.
The operation was today. My mother received a phone call from the vet, telling her that Puppy wasn’t waking up. My mom went to the vet’s office, petted her and talked to her, and she seemed to improve, but then her heart just gave out. She died.
Puppy, or Latke as she was known to some, was thirteen years old. I still remember the day that she arrived at my parents’ house in Littlerock. I was home from college on winter vacation and my friend Shelley was there too. We woke up one morning to find a puppy in the yard. No one could figure out how she got in, but no one was surprised either, because all of the dogs we ever had growing up sort of magically appeared at the house (except for Sasha, whom I got from an ad in the paper).
She was the first real puppy we had because all the other dogs were adults when we got them. She was brownish, and we joked that she was the color of my mom’s burnt latkes (it was around Chanukah time). So we named her Latke, but then called her Puppy anyway.
I am so sorry and sad for my parents right now, especially my mom, who had a special bond with Puppy.
If you read this and have a moment, drop my mom a condolence email (zaksland@roadrunner.com).
Mommy, I’m thinking about you tonight and I am very sorry this happened. I know she is no longer in pain and is frolicking around in doggie heaven with Tiffany, Shadow, Scoobie, and Boner, and Sasha is probably ignoring her.
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