On Dads, Dogs and Death:

As my duenna dog Whimsy approaches the final portal, I feel strangely and fiercely connected to my father...

Phil was a giant among curmudgeons...he could fit more curse words into a sentence than M&Ms into a clown car...he had a history of fighting authority, and a list of debits resulting from it...

But he loved his PooDog.

PooDog was a god-knows-what/Rottwieler mix with the funniest underbite...despite his formidable drool, the sweetest soul...

When PooDog died, it killed my dad...the previous 3 heart attacks didn't do it, but the one he had 3 months after Poo left did the trick....he drowned in his grief...

Now, as I witness the slowed gait and painful mounting of the couch...the labored breathing...I understand...

I am obsessed with the momentary and miniscule details of Whimsy's comfort right now....no surgery because it would be too risky...new, softer beds...get rid of the massive 4x4 and get a minivan so she has easy access...

and yet the inevitable prevails...