Today I said goodbye to Tobey.
I didn't want a dog. I'd made that clear over and over. Dogs make messes. They chew things up. They dig holes. They shed. They need as much attention as a small child, and I just didn't have the time. But my little girl wanted a dog.
My daughter was never a doll person. She only played with stuffed animals. Even the cartoons she liked most were Sylvester the cat and Tweety bird. I so wanted a little girl to play Barbie with, but she loved animals. And from a very tender age she began asking for a dog. Of course I had a truckload of excuses for why that just wasn't possible. Our apartment was too small, dogs wouldn't be allowed. There was no yard in our condo. It would be cruel to have a dog locked up all day. It worked, for a while. Until we bought our house. Now there was a yard. She begged for a dog. Oh, but that wouldn't be possible. The yard wasn't fenced in. Besides, a dog would destroy our brand new back yard. No, no, absolutely not.
She didn't give up, of course. She turned to Daddy. Daddy is mush in her hands. She wanted a dog so badly. Couldn't she please have a dog for her birthday? It was all she wanted. And Daddy didn't know how to say no.
I tried all the excuses again. I made it clear that I would NOT be responsible for the care of this dog. He and his daughter would have to see to it that the dog was fed, bathed, walked, and anything else it needed. I figured, "that'll change their minds." It didn't. Both daughter and father were determined to have a dog. I realized I was fighting a losing battle. But one thing was for sure, if I had to have a dog in my house, I was going to be the one to choose. At least that way I'd have some control over the matter.
I didn't want a fancy purebred dog. Those cost an arm and a leg, and there are so many dogs in the pound that desperately need a home. Their plight touched my heart. I started scouring the Internet for dogs in animal control that could be adopted. I finally narrowed it down to 2. One was a black cocker spaniel named Princess, and the other was a blond terrier named Tobey. I asked if either of these dogs would be good with children. It turned out that Princess didn't like little kids. With a 2 year old at home I knew that wouldn't work. No one knew if Tobey liked children or not. I sent my husband to check out the dog. My husband called from the pound, and excitedly told me the dog was very active and happy, running around and playing with him. Hubby was hooked. I had only seen Tobey in pictures, but he seemed like a regal dog, sitting up straight as though he were posing for his photograph. We decided Tobey was the one, and my husband brought him home. My daughter was ecstatic. He was the cutest thing, and although they told us he was about 2 years old he acted like a puppy. Despite my reservations I was glad to see my little girl so happy. Maybe this was a good idea after all.
The very next day the dog "marked his territory" in the dining and family rooms. As can be suspected, I was not happy. I decided this would be a good lesson for my daughter about what she'd gotten herself into, and had her help clean up. She did, without complaining. Tobey was house broken, so this incident didn't repeat itself often, thankfully. Within a month Tobey had chewed up the heel of a brand new shoe (mine, of course). He was also digging holes in the yard. I griped about it every chance I got. It didn't seem to faze anyone. Everyone was enjoying Tobey, me included, though I wasn't quick to admit it. He was a cutey, for sure. Playful, loving, and very protective of every member of our family. But I didn't fall in love with him right away. It wasn't until the infamous mouse day that my feelings for Tobey grew deeper that I'd ever anticipated.
Anyone who knows anything about me knows I hate mice. Not just hate, I am mortified of them. Suffice it to say that I have a childhood trauma and seeing a mouse on television sends me into frenzy. To have one enter my home is unthinkable. Yet it did happen. I woke up early one morning for work, and saw something run into my closet. Since I wasn't wearing my glasses I didn't know what it was, all I'd seen was a shadow. I woke my husband and had him look for anything suspicious, but he found nothing. He joked about it with the kids: "Mommy thinks she saw Mickey Mouse in the closet." Ha ha, funny guy. However, that night as we got ready for bed, he saw the mouse run from behind our dresser to the closet. It was real, it was in my stuff, and I was ready to put up the For Sale sign in the front yard. I started shaking, hyperventilating, and the only thing I could think to say was, "Get Tobey". See, terriers are hunting dogs. Tobey had hunted down every lizard he could find in our yard, and was always looking for prey. It was funny to watch him squat like a lion and pounce on his unsuspecting victim. Now, I needed his hunting skills, or else I wouldn't be able to sleep in my house. Tobey had been sleeping himself, and wasn't too eager to get up despite the ruckus going on. My husband and older son had managed to chase the vermin out of my closet and into the living room where it was desperately trying to save its life. Between the two of them and the broom they weren't making headway. Then Tobey saw the mouse. He immediately jumped into action, ran after the nasty little critter, and killed it. The mouse was gone, and Tobey had won his place in our home and in my heart.
We wondered about his breed. Just from looking at his face we knew he was some sort of terrier, but which one(s)? My daughter bought books and looked up pictures on the Internet. We looked at different types of terriers, trying to see Tobey's face & body in them. Some were close but not exact. He had some attributes of different breeds, but it wasn't until she saw some pictures of one particular breed that we realized we had a very special dog. Tobey was identical to some of the pictures of the soft coated wheaten terrier. He had the same beautiful wheat colored coat, the same face, size and shape. The only difference was his tail. Wheatens normally have their tails cropped. Tobey's tail was full grown. Upon searching we found the answer: wheaten terriers whose tails aren't cropped have a tail similar to that of a golden retriever. Yep, that convinced us. We had a soft coated wheaten terrier, that would have cost hundreds of dollars had we purchased him from a breeder, but instead cost us $80 from the pound. I just love a bargain.
Tobey was an active and healthy dog. Other than his shots, Tobey had only seen the vet once or twice. He spent a lot of time outdoors where he had plenty of exercise, and slept indoors, keeping us safe. That's why I found it strange when, a few weeks ago, he started acting different. I couldn't put my finger on it at first, but he just wasn't the same Tobey. Normally when I came home, Tobey would run to greet me and jump up, putting his legs around me like a hug. I'd then proceed to give him some treats for performing a few tricks. He would sit, give us his paw, play dead, and stand on his hind legs. Anything for a biscuit, kind of like Scooby-Doo. Lately, though, he wouldn't jump up or stand. I mentioned this to my daughter, but she figured that at 8-9 years old Tobey was getting too old for those antics. I shrugged it off. Maybe she was right. But one Friday we came home to find Tobey lying in my bedroom, unwilling to get up. When we tried to move him, he yelled as if in pain. My suspicion was right – something was wrong with our dog. We took him to his vet, who ran all kinds of tests and took x-rays but found nothing wrong. It was decided that maybe he had a digestive problem, had eaten something that was obstructing and he just needed to go to the bathroom. He was given pain killers, an enema, and sent home. Tobey got worse. He stopped eating or drinking water and had to be put on an IV. Again the vet ran tests, took x-rays, but found nothing. We took Tobey to the emergency room at the animal hospital. They did a sonogram. Everything was normal. The specialist could not understand what was wrong with our dog. All he could offer was to run more tests and do an MRI to try to figure out what was wrong with Tobey, to the tune of $3,000 - $4,000. There was a high chance he'd require surgery. Our heads were spinning. Back we went to the vet, requesting some kind of treatment. Pain killers, muscle relaxers, antibiotics were administered. His hind legs got steadily worse. His spine was curving; he could hardly walk, and was in constant pain. How could this have happened? Just a month before he was fine, and now we watched as our dog deteriorated. The last possible diagnosis from the vet was that a) he had spinal disc damage, or b) he had cancer. Either option meant surgery, long treatment, and no guarantee that he'd make it since the problem was in his spine. We had to make the most painful decision of ending his misery. Everyone in the family reluctantly agreed that Tobey would need to be put to sleep.
But I couldn't do it.
My husband asked me to make the appointment with the vet, and I couldn't. A huge lump came into my throat and my stomach. All I could muster was, "this is why I never wanted a dog." The pain of seeing him suffer is unbearable, but the pain of losing him is no less tolerable.
I'm so proud of my daughter. This has been especially hard on her, because Tobey was "her dog". She made the appointment and took him in. I know she's hurting, and there's nothing that anyone can do for her. She did what was best for Tobey, even though it broke her heart.
I don't know if dogs go to heaven. I've searched the Bible trying to find something, but Scripture is silent on this matter. If they do go to heaven, I'm sure I'll meet Tobey there. If not, then I thank the Lord for the six years we had him. He taught us to love and laugh and have fun.
Bye bye my puppy. I'll miss you.
