Recently our pooch passed.
Well – it would have been better had she passed all by herself but we had to make the decision for her. It haunts me still… in the dead of night… in the middle of the day – whenever.
My. Dog. Is. Dead.
Um yeah… know we did the right thing (and we had no choice) yet still feel ultra shitty and guilty too… and wonder who the hell were we to decided that it was time for our dog to die?
And she was not just any old dog.
She was Fudge – the dog with a blog – for eight freaking years that dog wrote her weekly blog (which also appeared in the Springs Advertiser) and entertained people around the world with her antics.
Everything she wrote about happened. Maybe some of the stuff got a little embellished here and there (a bit of canine licence you could say) but each and every single episode in the series of blogs happened.
Hundreds of them.
Seriously. Eight whole effing years that little doglet stayed glued to my side.
She smiled at me, bitched at me to play with her. Messed up my working routine when I was on a roll. Smooched me when I was feeling sad. Clawed me with her bear claw-paws, jumped on me, squished my feet, lay in the way and dished me unconditional love.
She knew her love was every bit reciprocated.
I understood what she was thinking… Hey mom! Get off your butt and let’s play ball! Or maybe…. Hullo – it’s dinner o’clock. Or sometimes just a fangy grin letting me know she was a happy little dog and loved her life.
I work from home – Fudgie was my constant companion.
She shed more than sixty trillion million hairs all over the house, our clothes, the beds… hell – we even found Fudge hair in rented cars in Cape Town when Fudges was in the kennels in Equestria.
The cleaning staff at the University of Pretoria rebuked Chris for bringing a dog into his office. He had a hard time explaining there had been no dog in his office.
My mom and daughters maintained that they knew Fudge had been around when they found her hair in their bras. Whether they came to visit in Pretoria or we all went to visit in the Cape.
Once I went to pitch a deal for writing “Sibo Fights Malaria” with a very elegant professor. He had this immaculate office with a round table that gleamed. Hauled out my Sibo books and plonked them on the table. The dude picked up the nano book and several little magical fibres of joy wafted down onto the table.
I inwardly cringed and nonchalantly swiped at them. They skittered across the polished surface – out of my reach.
Another time, without thinking I slipped off one of my pumps at a conference and joggled it around on my big toe…. then noticed that it had acquired a lovely (very obvious) furry lining between the sole and the side of the shoe.
Now there is this huge gaping hole in my hairless life.
I carefully open the door when I come in from shopping… Fudge would always wait by the door for me to come home… but there is no Fudge. No matter who else was left in the house, when I went out, Fudgie mooched by the door waiting…
Mom. The person who fed her, talked crap to her, foofled with her ears, scratched her chin. Let her lick my plate, my face, my ear. Dished her snacks. Stuck up for her when she demolished things she was not supposed to. Fed her pills. Carried her up and down the stairs when she could no longer manage them herself. Held her paw when she had fits, wiped up widdles, scooped her poop, wept when she was sick. Hated going away on holiday if it involved her having to go to the kennels and got pissed off with anybody who called her Pudgy Fudgie. She was a big dog on short legs. Oh, okay – she was a tad on the robust side too – specially after she got sick.
I used to go onto the grass to hula hoop and Fudges would charge out and deposit her ball at my feet. My play time was her play time. I had to learn to play ball and hula at the same time without dropping the hoop.
I carefully get out of bed at night (her baskie lived next to my side) but the basket is gone.
Her balls are scattered around the place… how she loved her balls. Waiting for Chris to get home from work each evening and play with her was a highlight. No matter how often Em or I chucked that ball – Chris did it better.
The neighbourhood kids loved her for her gentle nature.
The cats are confused. They look at me with question marks in their eyes… What did you do with our dog?
There is still dog-nose-art on the sliding door.
I see there is a thunderstorm forecast and shudder – only to realize that the mighty Thunderdog can no longer send her scuttling under the bed.
Often I am swamped by the realization that my doglet is no longer here. She’s not in another room. Or outside. It takes my breath away, stuffs up my chest and I want to howl and rage.
But mostly I just want her warm fuzzy body back to hug once more.
How I miss my furry friend… love you Fudges.