A version of this ran in The Virginian-Pilot on July 25, 2010.
"I can do it," said the big guy holding the thin, ancient dog on his lap. "I'll stay with her."
That's my son. The 20-year-old college sophomore with the scruffy Brett Favre face and thick, hairy arms. He looked somber as he scratched the sick dog's ears with his man hands.
Well, that was that. He would be the one who would stay with the dog when she was put to sleep.
Perfect, in a melancholy sort of way. The closing of a circle. After all, he was the one who cuddled with her on her first car ride home. Fifteen years later, he'd be the one to stroke her fur when she left.
On that first day, he was a little boy with smooth baby skin and long curls. I picked him up from preschool at noon and said we were on a secret mission to get a puppy. If we liked the look of the one I'd found in the newspaper, that is.
She was a tiny ball of fluff with a wet nose, brown eyes and a vibrating pom-pom tail. Who wouldn't want her?
"Let's name her Spot," my son said, nuzzling her apricot face on the way home. But the miniature poodle had no spots. By nightfall, my daughter had dubbed her Taffy.
She had miraculous powers, that puppy. Earlier that first day, my oldest child had been sent home from school with strep. As soon as she spied the prancing poodle, she forgot her raging fever, her angry throat.
"Oh, Mommy," she shrieked as she scooped up the dog and hugged it to her nightgown. "A puppy!"
In the early weeks, I worried that the kids might maul the 2-pound newcomer to death.
No danger. The more she was handled, the happier she was.
Taffy quickly became our main entertainment. A dog with boundless energy, she'd retrieve the same toy over and over. Then she would leap onto our laps and whirl in happy circles. When she fell asleep, we'd roll her over and stroke her fat, silky stomach, smell her puppy breath.
She was loved. So were we.
The novelty of a new dog wore off after time, and suddenly she was just there, content to wait patiently for a pat on the head. She went into full poodle mode when anyone reached for her leash. She could hear food being poured into her bowl from 100 yards away. The smell of bacon made her delirious.
At night, she alternated between the kids' bedrooms. She sulked when they went off to camp or on sleepovers.
College was especially hard on the old girl.
During the day, she slept in my daughter's empty room. At night, she moved into my son's. Meanwhile, a cataract blinded her left eye. Her hearing failed. Months ago she became incontinent.
Fetching was just a fuzzy memory. So was being a watchdog. And running on the beach. She even stopped stealing our socks. Next, negotiating the three steps up to the back door became an exercise in exhaustion.
When the kids came home from school this spring, she briefly perked up. But soon she was more listless than ever, confused and skinny.
"Feel this mass in her abdomen?" the vet asked Thursday. "This will eventually kill her."
Thus began last week's "quality of life" consultation. We talked in hushed tones as Taffy panted and watched us out of her good eye. Her time had come, it seemed.
Wait. Not so fast.
"Take her home," suggested the vet. "Give her a Taffy Week. Let her eat ice cream. "
"Table scraps," my son interjected.
"Cheese, " I added.
That's what we're doing. We have one last chance to spoil our old dog, to shower her with gratitude, to let her know she's been a good and faithful friend.
For most families, this is just the end of July. For us, it's Taffy Week.
We're celebrating it with bacon fat. And belly rubs.
