Tears and Farewells

My last dog died while I was away traveling. By the time I had returned, the family had adopted another. Our neighbour at our bach was dying of cancer and had a pair of poodles, named Dodi and Diana, that she loved desperately. She had a home for one of them but she needed to find somewhere for the other, so she asked our family to take him in, knowing that we were currently without a canine companion. So when I returned from my travels, Dodi was there, waiting to greet me with flolloping paws and a giant lick, and when I moved back home to help my family with their own troubles with illness, he was still there.

Before owning a poodle, I had held many prejudices against them (poncey and poofey were two words that may have passed my lips) but he has been the most wonderful pet. He's a standard poodle, so stands nearly waist height, and as he was not kept in show clip, rather resembles a giant, fluffy lamb. This resemblance was exacerbated when he was younger, as his pure joy at being taken out walking translated into a tendency to gambol through grassy fields, something that was always amusing in locations like the Parnell Rose Gardens, where puzzled and delighted Japanese tourists watched open-mouthed.

Sadly, old age caught up with him and his days of gamboling are now gone. This morning we said farewell to him, gave him last hugs and kisses and took him to be put down. It's for the best: His eyesight was going and he was in pain. I'm glad that he's no longer hurting, but I miss him already.