Dear Diary,
It is with a great deal of sadness that I write these lines tonight. I apologize in advance for the disjointed, maudlin, and rambling text that follows. This the third attempt. The other two are in the cyber rubbish heap. It is very likely that I’ll have to come back and edit this post too. Seems like the tears keep blurring the screen on me. Damn screen anyhow.
I have fortified my interior with a split of wine, so it may be that I can get thru it this time.
Parks’ Styx River
August, 1988 - August, 2008
Yes, I know his real name was Styx. However, that certain little girl couldn’t quite make it come out right. It kept on being Stitch, so we let it ride. Stitch it was.
He didn’t care. As long as she loved him, it was fine whatever she wanted to call him. Loved him she did. She’s sixteen now, and thinks she’s all grown up. Well, she could be all grown up. Who am I to judge things like that. Stitch didn’t care a bit how old she was, or wasn’t. He was just proud to be with her.
Faithful friend. Fierce protector of children. Loving companion. Guardian of the front door (No stranger passed without the OK from within) . Tolerant father. Totally committed to our family. That was Stitch.
Like most dogs that I have known, Stitch didn’t have bad moods. He wasn’t particularly fond of the pestering he took from the various felines, but he tolerated them all.
Stitch was a cute puppy. (He was the first Doxy that our family had been close to. We have had friends or acquaintances who have/had a Doxy or two, but Stitch was our first.) I can still remember the little needles that were his milk teeth. He knew how to use them too. His ears were too long for his head, and his legs were too short for his longish body. Clumsy isn’t a real good word for his daily activities, but it’s very close.
It seems like Stitch grew up over night. I know that’s not possible, but with the passing of years I forget some of the details of his life then. As Stitch approached his middle years, he developed some health problems. The vet was very good and kept us on the right path as far as nutrition and immunizations were concerned.
Now, Stitch didn’t care for the vet shop. Not at all. He always liked to go for a ride with me. Excited to be going, he’d jump up into the floor of the truck and squirm up into the seat so he could face out of the already open window. That first trip to the vet was the last happy trip to the vet for Stitch. I don’t know if it was the smell, the sounds, or just what, but he knew when we got within a block or so of the vet shop. He flatly didn’t like to go there.
Stitch was a man’s dog. He didn’t care if I hadn’t shaved today. He was really happy to lick the salty, oily, sweat from my face when I came in from yard work. He didn’t care if I wore the same shirt two days running. He didn’t care that I had to rebuke him yesterday as long as I petted, and paid attention, to him today. For my part, I didn’t care if he smelled like a dog. I didn’t care if he dug the occasional hole in the yard. I didn’t care if he left his bone under my chair. He was my friend.
Lest you get the wrong idea from that last paragraph, I must tell you that Stitch wasn’t my dog. Stitch belonged to my wife, Jean. And, my wife belonged to Stitch. Stitch was her dog. He knew it. She knew it. And, I knew it. I’m hers too, so what the hell?
In his later years, Stitch had lost his sight and hearing. The vet said that both sets of senses seemed to be working, but the signals didn’t make it to the correct set of synapses. His nose continued to work for a couple of years after he could no longer hear. He tracked himself, and us, with that faithful nose until just the last few months. His sense of smell began to fail in late May or Early June.
Stitch had problems with his joints and spine. A combination of arthritis and rheumatism that plagued him for the last five years. There were times, lately, where we didn’t know if he would be able to stand at all. And, you could tell that he wasn’t pleased with the situation either.
The hair on his head and face began to fade about eight years ago. The progression was slow but inexorable. Much as it has been for me. The relentless, implacable, and merciless deterioration of the physical body is one price we pay for living past the norm. Stitch’s head and muzzle were completely white at the end.
Stitch is buried in the west flower bed. Right beside the Tiger Lily. That Tiger Lily is favored among all of the flowers as Stitch was favored among all the pets. Grandma’s favorites, both.
I promised to paint and decorate the small limestone slab that will be the marker for Stitch. I couldn’t do it today. May not be able to do it tomorrow either. But, I will get it done.
So, diary, now you know some about Styx River. You know more about Stitch though.
I have to close this chapter in my life. There are new puppies to love and care for. They don’t understand our sadness. I hope they never do.
Farewell old friend and stalwart companion. Perhaps you will be waiting when I make the long ride to that happiest of hunting grounds.
I truly hope so.
