Hello and welcome back to The Stone Soup Cook.
Today, I’m writing about something completely different. Instead of food, I’m going to be sharing thoughts about an old friend that we had to say goodbye to on Saturday night: our beloved little dog Moxie:
Moxie died late Saturday evening at the age of 18. We adopted her from the local shelter when she was about 3. She had two different color eyes, fluffy ears, a perfect little button nose and enough spunk and personality for two dogs. She was a bit of a ringtail toot from the minute we met her and it took lots and lots of training, patience and loads and loads of love to live with her. But–love her we did–until the very end and we miss her terribly.
Moxie was the kind of dog who would lick your foot until she took the top layer of skin off if you didn’t pay attention to her. She would bark and nip at you until you rubbed her ears. And she would come and wake you up in the middle of the night if she suddenly decided that she wanted the rest of her dinner that she had earlier declined. She was the kind of a dog who, when presented with a new toy, would chew on it until she got the squeaker out of it, and then toss it aside. We referred to this as a “squeakerectomy.”
But Moxie was also the kind of dog who would get a toy and sling it down the hall so she could chase it–retrieve it and sling it down the hall again. She was also the kind of dog who would greet you at the door, wagging her tail furiously with joy; she would grab a toy and throw it at you to insight play, and if a toy wasn’t near enough at hand, well then, dragging her whole bed down the hall would do just as well. And when performing those “squeakerectomies” I mentioned earlier, Moxie would first focus on chewing while lying on her stomach, and then turn over onto her back and continue chewing while holding the toy in her paws:
Moxie was hilarious, but more than anything else, she was cute. Actually, she was SUPER cute. And she knew it: she knew just how much she could get away with based on her “cuteness” factor. We referred to this as the “Cute Bank”–in other words–she kept just enough “cute” in the bank to make sure we didn’t take her back to the shelter after some particularly fussy episodes. Some days, she went into arrears. But it never mattered. She just understood “cute,” and we were total suckers for it.
She was spunky and mischievous and had a zest and a lust for life that I have seldom seen in other dogs–or humans, for that matter. She played and made us howl with laughter, and when the chips were down, she would howl with us. And she clung to every drop of her life with every fiber of her being.
Two years ago, she was diagnosed with dementia and would wander the house barking and howling all night. With time, she overcame the sundowning, but then strokes ravaged her little body and robbed her of her ability to walk and play. And still, she found things to enjoy–whether it was being fed her food by hand or being cuddled up in a blanket on our laps. Toward the end, when we had to take her out to do her business using a rope and pulley system, I would feel her tail gently wagging against my leg.
Even at the very end, when time had taken her ability to see, hear and move around, she still enjoyed taking in a relaxing sunbath in the backyard:
This was the last photo I took of her only a day before she left us. She died, as she lived: on her own terms. She passed away very peacefully, in my arms. She just stopped breathing. Today, this world has fewer shenanigans to deal with, but I’m guessing that heaven is a pretty rocking place now that she’s in it.
Rest in peace, little one. We miss you and will love you always,
Mommy and Daddy
