So the dog cancer strikes quickly, too quickly for me to make a final drive down to see my old friend Dixie. My Dad called mid-week to say they might have to take her in as soon as the weekend - Friday morning, he called to say the final appointment had been made.
By close of business, an urn with her remains and a stamp of her paw-print had come back to the house.
I have so many fun memories of Dixie tearing through the house and yard, pulling a load of bread off the counter and devouring it, and most importantly, her last good year. When Jenny and I came to my parents' house in Georgia for the first time, Dixie was in rare form, rampaging through the house, eager for poop walks, and just as eager to lie down next to your feet once her daily patrol for dinner scraps ended.
On that trip, I revealed myself as a cat owner. While snacking on some pizza, I offered the then-14-year-old dog a lick of my piece. In pure puppy fashion, she snared it and ran, eager to capitalize on my lapse in judging her appetite. Afterward, I took her on one of the long walks she couldn't manage in recent years, then she slumbered mightily.
She might be ashes, but I'll gladly take that as my last moment of Dixie.
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