In December of 2004 we caved in to the incessant torture that only five dog-starved children can administer and bought a cute little mostly-Beagle
which we named Nixon (after the watch, not the President.)
Soon our good friends gave in to similar excruciating juvenile pressure and bought a Beagle of their own which they named Lizzie (after the Queen, not the axe murderer.)
Immediately, every activity included Nixon and Lizzie. They attended puppy training classes at Petco where they disgraced themselves week after week, and gnawed paths of destruction wherever they went. They were thrown together every day by their enthusiastic mentors and loved each other with a love as white hot as hate.
They were illegally joined in canine matrimony one fine spring day in a ceremony performed by a 9 year old girl wearing a long black wig, robe and sunglasses. Frank Sinatra was singing Fly Me to the Moon and someone brought a cake that said "Congratulations Nixon and Lizzie Dog". The brief honeymoon was spent in a wading pool and then the young neutered lovers went their usual separate ways.
Nixon tried his best over the years to wear the fur pants in the family but never could tame his sassy tri-color mate.
And then, suddenly it was over. Lizzie, with her purebred sensibilities, was always more delicate than her hardy mate, and she gradually she lost her sight, her smell...everything but a mournful howl when the piano was played.
When Nixon heard the news he went through the usual stages of grief, beginning with anger, manifested in the death of a grackle who mocked his pain.
The last stage, of grief is acceptance, but Nixon will never get there. Every time he hears the back gate open, or hears a howl from a neighboring yard his hopeful tail wags and he waits for Lizzie to appear.
Larainy Days is proud to be featured this week on
Pocket Change
as "Best of the Web"
Posts
