An Obituary for an Old Friend

Yesterday, at the Woodbury Animal Humane Society at the same place where he was adopted from, Woody, a Brittney-Spaniel Jack Russell Terrier Mix, was peacefully put to sleep after battling with Cushing's.

Who is this dog, you may ask?

It's my dog.

Woody had been my dog for as long as I can remember... We had had him since I was around five, when he was seven months old. I can still recall the exact cage that he was in, on the left side of the room. He was an eager, happy, energetic puppy who jumped on the cage door. When I came into the kennel with my dad he jumped on me and licked my face, whining. I wanted him to be my dog. And that very same night, my parents came home with him.

But it wasn't all blissful from there on out. Oh no. The training wasn't the worst part: he was a very smart dog, and was trained easily, really. It was the fact that he was a runner. So, my earliest memories of Woody were the ones that I spent in my car seat in the Suburban, keeping my eyes peeled for the happy-go-lucky dork that never seemed to learn to stay in his yard. Though he did quickly learn that the cats--Black and Jack--were the bosses of him.

Woody's favorite part of life was to be outside.

He would race around the yard, tearing up the grass like he was in NASCAR; bark at squirrels and successfully hunt them down; digging in the compost, and his favorite spot was to lounge underneath the two pine trees in the back yard. He was also an avid walker. We followed the same route day after day, and he always knew the way. Whenever I would make a change to our route, he'd glance over his shoulder at me and gaze at me questioningly. He'd go along with it though, because back then, the longer the walk, the better.

He also loved to be near water. I say "near" because he was afraid to swim. But when we had a boat he would stand near the front, smiling as the wind whipped his face and jingled his collar, feeling the droplets of the salty lake on his chest.

He was the prettiest dog that was in the neighborhood. Shiny, curly white hair with tan spots, and a girly little tail that wagged a mile a minute. His ears perched and he strutted proud. He was a faithful companion: always wanting to be outside with my father, or begging us for food while he sat outside the kitchen, and at night lying underneath our feet. When you sat in the armchair he would drift by the chair and sit down, nudging you with his nose and encouraging you to pet him. He enjoyed being in family photos and was the center of attention.

When Woody started to get sick, it started with subtle clues. First, he started with unquenchable thirst. He began to lose his hair. It didn't take long for us to know that something was wrong, but the vets said that it was just old age. That it was nothing. Then it increased to having an insatiable appetite, and bloating. These signs were what we later found to be characteristic of Cushing's, an autoimmune disease, which he was diagnosed with last year. The vet said that he wasn't going to make it through the summer...

But they were wrong again.

Woody was my first dog, and one of the best dogs that I will ever have. He was intelligent, he was spunky, and he brought us happiness. Even in his old, tired age he loved Kiki and Elli, our newest additions to the family. (Both are Cairn terriers.) He took care of them and tolerated them with a perserverance that astounded us. He loved all those who surounded him. I could tell you hundreds of little tidbits about Woody, and so many stories.

I'm just grateful that he shared his life with us.