The day after Christmas, I had to have my best friend put to death.
The above statement can be more or less dramatic depending on your personal feelings, but for me, it about sums up a little gnawing voice in the back of my head. Even though the decision was perhaps in the best interests of everyone involved, I can by no means consider it right. In either case, it doesn’t change the fact that on December 26th, 2007, the world suddenly became a dimmer place when my mother and I decided to put down our dog and best friend of over twelve years. Her name was Sandy.
Because I hate saving the worst for last, I’ll start with the terrible end my friend met after just turning twelve years old. Sandy was always a healthy dog, and never required any real medical attention, just the occasional routine vet visit. So it’s pretty easy to imagine my concern when she quickly lost five pounds, didn’t have any energy, and stopped eating.
My mother took Sandy to the vet and came back with grim news: Sandy had a tumor in her throat, and we had to make the decision whether or not to have it removed. The surgery was poised at costing almost a thousand dollars, but my mother and I agreed it was worth it to try and save our friend’s life.
To say I was apprehensive the day of the surgery would be an accurate yet pale way of saying how I felt at work that day. I had a sense of optimism and dread duking it out for control of my feelings. I was overjoyed when a phone call home revealed Sandy made it through the surgery and was coming home, and seeing her that night made me cry. I had my puppy back.
It was a close call. The growth had reached a point where the vet was amazed she could even eat, and he wasn’t sure Sandy could even breathe while he was working on the growth. Yet Sandy preserved, and the next night, she was pretty much back to her old self, with full energy and eating her food, and I cried once again.
Then she started making a wheezing noise when she breathed too hard. The noise became worse as time went on, and by the Monday after her surgery, was quick prominent during Sandy’s follow-up appointment. As I sat in the cold, depressing examining room waiting for the vet, I couldn’t help but feel a sense of terror as Sandy continued to struggle to breathe.
The vet came in and informed me the test results on the tumor showed she had melanoma, and fast-spreading cancer. Despite this, the vet attributed the wheezing to burst blood vessels in her nose that would heal on their own, and the prognosis on the wound itself seemed to be good. He sent Sandy home with cautious approval.
The holidays came into full swing, but I was not in the mood to celebrate. As Sandy suffered, I prayed the cancer would stay at bay just a little longer and the wheezing would go away. But it didn’t, and only got worse. Sandy almost completely stopped eating again, and what she could eat she usually vomited back up. She was becoming skinny again, and on Christmas night, couldn’t sleep because of her trouble breathing.
On the morning December 26th, my mother, my fiancée, Christy, and I took Sandy to the vet to have her looked at. We dropped Christy off and I made plans to hang out with a friend and maybe go to a family party with Christy. This was up until we got a call from the vet telling us that the tumor had grown again, this time advancing into Sandy’s mouth and into a hard-to-reach place.
The options were useless. We could have a specialist remove the tumor, but bone would also have to be removed, it was extremely expensive, and there it was very unlikely all of the cancer would be removed. Steroids were another option, but the vet doubted she would last the week even with them. It was at that point my mother and I knew there was only one option, the option no pet owner should ever have to make. We decided Sandy had to be put to sleep.
We both broke down when the realization came. I was terrified of this outcome, and the anticipation of it didn’t do much to stop the pain. I canceled all of my plans and begged Christy to come with me, because I knew I would need her with me to get through the hardest decision I ever had to make.
The worst part was the waiting. We had to wait over two hours before we could leave to give to vet our decision. Normally, two hours isn’t anything to me these days, but on that day, it was an eternity of Hell.
When we finally got to the vet’s office, we tearfully told them we decided to put Sandy down. I made it clear we didn’t want to, but it had to be done. As a happenstance of twisted mercy, the vet was able to do the procedure that day, saving us the agony of having the inevitable linger over us for longer than it had to.
As I knew I would, I burst into tears when they brought Sandy into the examining room. Despite her struggle, she wagged her tail in her usual gleeful away that she always does when she sees us, making it all the more impossible to come to terms with what was about to be done.
The vet sedated her, and Sandy slowly went limp. Although it was a slow reminder of her coming end, it was also another dark mercy, because at least she began to look sick, whereas before it was hard to tell the difference. As her body melted and became unable to support itself, the tension of the coming end was building, and hit a climatic end when the vet came in with the lethal dose of anesthesia.
The scene that comes next still haunts me whenever I give it any thought and causes me to question our decision. After shaving the injection site, the vet stuck the needle containing the lethal pink concoction into Sandy’s leg. As this was going on, a voice in the back my head was screaming “Stop it! Don’t hurt my puppy!” But I also knew it had to be done.
As the anesthesia mixed with her blood, a sense of permanence overcame me. I wanted to rip that needle out and take all of the poison out of her, but I knew it was impossible at this point. Within seconds, the vet checked Sandy’s vitals, and then muttered the three words that still bring me to tears: “She’s gone.”
I fell apart at the moment, because the friend I had loved for twelve years was now gone, replaced with a lifeless body that would never again house the purest of souls. I can’t say for sure how long we cried, but the tears surely didn’t stop until hours later.
After we had recovered what we could of our senses, I asked for a scissors, because I wanted to save some of Sandy’s hair. This may seem rather psychotic, but Sandy had some of the strangest hair, and it was therefore special. I hated to think that it would all one day disappear forever. We also opted to have her cremated and the ashes returned to us, because I couldn’t live with the idea of my wonderful dog rotting away or being dug up by an opportunistic animal.
After the arrangements were made, I did something that the vet probably didn’t expect: I thanked him. Even in the worst of situations, I knew it wasn’t his fault. I’m sure the vet appreciated this gesture, because he most certainly does not get gratitude during situations like this.
That night was definitely a touchy time. I had taken Sandy’s collar and shoved it partway into my pants pocket. When we got home, I walked up to the door leading inside, and the collar jingled. For a split second, I genuinely believed it was Sandy running to the door to greet us like she always did. It goes without saying that I lost it again.
After talking about what had happened, we started to get hungry, so I went out for pizza. When I got home, I started feeling really sad again, because I knew Sandy wasn’t going to run up to me and see what I brought her. The other problem with the pizza was I would feed Sandy my crusts, and she would usually take them and lay them on the carpet without even thinking of eating them. This annoyed Christy to no end, so I joked that Sandy was just decorating the house. That night, Christy said she would throw her crusts around the house. This is proof that the world missed out on a great girl because I snatched her up.
Coping with the loss was surprisingly easy, probably because I had been sandbagging for the worst case scenario for almost a month, and when the flood of disaster hit, the damage was lessened and I was able to pick up the pieces faster. I want to make it clear that I didn’t blame anyone for this, except the cancer. It wasn’t the vet’s fault, because he did everything he could. It wasn’t my mother’s fault or my fault, because there was nothing we could do to stop the cancer. It wasn’t Sandy’s fault for making me feel terrible, because I’m sure she didn’t want the cancer.
I could yell at God, but I’m not sure he exists, and this experience didn’t help any. I spent a lot of time questioning the religious and human outlook of the importance of animals. The minister of my mother’s church once said something to the affect that animals don’t have real souls, a remark that offended me back when I was thirteen and does now more than ever. I cursed the arrogance of religious morons who put themselves above ever other creature (even most of their own kind) because the words of some dusty old book told them it was okay, or didn’t really say that at all, and was just some crap they made up to feel better about themselves. I prayed during this time, but not to the God who would create life and cast it aside, but the God that loved all life, the one I think should exist if there was a God at all.
I hate going on a religious rant during this article, but it reflects just some of the experience.
Perhaps the one who helped me most with the coping process was Christy. Truth be told, she doesn’t care too much for dogs, as she was raised with cats, but she forced herself to care about Sandy because I did. But when my mother and I lost it at the final sight of her, Christy cried along with us, and became the literal shoulder for me to cry on. It would have been a lot more difficult to recover if it weren’t for her love, and that’s something I can never thank her for enough.
I also have to give thanks to the vet. Because of his caring professionalism, Sandy got to see another Christmas with us. I know for a fact if there was any way he could have saved her, he would have. I don’t envy his position, having to deal with the trauma of putting down a beloved pet, probably on a weekly basis, and I’m glad there are people like him in the world to help out pathetic slugs like myself.
The staff at the Oregon Animal Hospital was also very supportive. Case in point: they sent a signed sympathy card to our house a few weeks later. You probably aren’t in any position to bring your pet to this place, but if you live in the Toledo area, you might want to consider checking them out. From what I heard from other people’s vet horror stories, we got lucky with this place. My only complaint is it looks sort of run down and is depressing as hell, but whatever works.
We received Sandy’s ashes a week later, by which point we had got on with our lives. I was actually glad to have a part of her back in the house with me. It’s still strange to sit in an empty house when no one else is there or go on walks alone, but I’ve since come to terms with what happened, and have felt an odd sense of relief since we left the vet’s that day. Sandy isn’t suffering anymore, and though I’ll never really get over her, I know it was the best thing we could have done for her.
Now we’re finished with the bad part, which is appropriate, because the end of Sandy’s life was the only bad part of it. The twelve years I spent with Sandy were wrought with many changes, some good, some bad, but she was the only constant, and she was always one of the best parts. As I grow older and teeter on the concepts of home ownership and marriage, I can’t help but think one of the reasons I’m so torn up over Sandy’s death is because she represents a part of my life that I wish I could get back sometimes. With the link to my past now gone, I realize it’s probably time to move on, but not before telling Sandy’s story.
We first got Sandy in December of 1995. My mother’s co-worker had a dog that just gave birth to a litter of puppies, and she offered my mother one. My mother was willing to accept, because we currently lived with a rat terrier named Sparky who was basically pure evil and would attack us without provocation. My mother’s scheme was to use the new puppy as a way of taking my focus off of Sparky while she threw a potato sack over him and tossed him in the river. Well, not really, but at that point, she really wanted to get rid of him.
She made the idiot mistake of explaining her plan to me, and I whined about it, because while Sparky deserved nothing short of the potato sack, he was still my dog, and I didn’t want anyone to hurt him. However, that didn’t stop me from throwing in a counter offer if getting rid of Sparky in exchange for TWO puppies. In retrospect, it sounded really cold, and I knew I wouldn’t agree to getting rid of Sparky even if I had a dozen puppies, despite the fact I knew he had to go.
But that was a decision for later. For now, we were tasked with picking out a puppy. With all of the little scamps crawling around under the tree and being otherwise completely adorable, the decision was hard, but I knew I had to make it soon, because their mother had apparently figured out I was there to take one of her babies, and she expressed her distaste for this by nipping my heels.
My mother was the one who made the ultimate decision, basing it solely on the fact that one puppy seemed to be very cuddly. This puppy, of course, turned out to be Sandy. Ironically, she grew up not be all that cuddly, but very affectionate.
This is one of those points in my life where I’m in awe of how differently things could have gone. If I based my puppy choice on some other factor, such as how much their mother nipped me as I approached one of them, I could have picked another puppy and my life could have changed dramatically. This may seem to be an extreme statement, but if I picked out a dog with a different personality, it could have affected some of my decisions in life and ultimately lead a different path.
For example, if Sandy hadn’t almost knocked a chair on me after my first kiss with Christy because she was so excited to see me, would we have stuck out our rough first year together without a stupid story like that in the back of our minds? Would I have even gone through the process that led to me meeting her in the first place? And to think some people think dogs aren’t important.
Anyone, the puppy picked out, we were faced with the task of naming her. At the time, I probably knew I would be getting another dog soon, or at least wondered what I would name a new one, and I had my heart set on Dog Meat. Even more embarrassing than the name was the fact this is a Sewer Sharks reference, and I thought it was neat. Stupid kid.
Thankfully, I wussed out at name time, so we continued agonizing over what to call the new dog. Eventually, my mother, noting the light brown coloration on her paws and the fact it was the Christmas season, suggested “Sandy Paws” as a play on “Sandy Claus.” This was quickly shortened to simply Sandy, and the name stuck.
Because my mother didn’t meet the terms of my offer of Sparky’s life for two puppies, the malicious dog managed to stay with us for over a year. He and Sandy would actually play with each other sometimes, but other times, she would bear the brunt of his viciousness. In fact, she quickly became my retainer. I would send her out ahead of me, and Sparky would go after her while I walked past unscathed. It’s amazing she didn’t eat my liver while I was asleep…
In the spring of 1997, Sparky attacked my mother with a ferocity he had never displayed before. This was the final straw out of the economy pack of hundreds. She called the Oregon Animal Hospital and made arrangements to have him put down. I was torn up by this and tried to talk some sense into her (“Come on, Mom! Why wouldn’t we keep a ravenous demon that tries to kill every living thing in his sight for no reason?”), but it didn’t work, and a week later, Sparky was put to sleep. I was a little sad about it, but I knew it had to be done.
Another person who was sad about it was Sandy, who, despite all of the mean things Sparky had done to her, still wanted to be his friend. This should be a testament to how loving of a dog she was. Either that, you could say it showed that she was as dumb as a chew toy, but I’m religiously devoted to the former.
After a day or two, however, Sandy realized she wasn’t getting attacked anymore, and suddenly her tail curled up in its now-famous way and her personality blossomed. She quickly took over the dog duty for the household, and since that point became an irreplaceable presence in the house.
While I love dogs, I know some of them can be hard to get along with. This wasn’t the case with Sandy. Proof of this is she was easy to train. She learned a few tricks without too much trouble, and never had any problems with toilet training. In fact, after she learned where she was supposed to do her business, she had one accident in her twelve years, and no one actually caught her in the act, so it could just be some sinister poop gnome trying to frame her.
Okay, she wasn’t always good, as we have some gnawed wood finishing in the bathroom to prove that, but she only chewed it because I had her in the bathroom with me (don’t get any ideas, you sicko) and she was bored, and this was when she was a puppy anyway. She would also occasionally get into the trash, but considering this was the only time we had to yell at her for anything, we had it pretty good.
She was also prone to car sickness when she was a puppy. We discovered this the first time we ever took her to the vet, located only about three miles from our house, yet this proved to be too much for Sandy, and she yakked up on the way home. I distinctly remember reacting quickly to a barrage of puke by quickly rolling down the car window, despite the fact it was winter, and let her go for it. This strategy almost completely failed, because she got more on the window than out, save for a puke globule that I saw fly past the back window, probably into the windshield of the very confused motorist tailing behind us.
I hate to liken the immortal image of Sandy with vomiting, but that was sadly something she was prone to do all of her life, seemingly at random. While she did get over her car sickness eventually, the first year was pretty rough, because my mother insisted on going up to the cottage she had just inherited from her mother that summer, and it was a sixty mile-plus drive, so you can only imagine how Sandy held up. The first time we took her up, we had her in her pet carrier, and, without getting too graphic, she had her own swimming pool by the end of that trip.
The rest of the trips were done with Sandy outside of the carrier, though this proved to be bad for her too. She couldn’t go a whole trip without hurling, usually on me, and I came to dread it despite the preparations we made for the inevitable event. One time, my mother was mocking me for making such a big deal about Sandy throwing up on me, so when Sandy started in her heaves, I quickly directed the results onto my mother’s lap. To this day, I still chuckle at her screaming “Eww! It’s warm and gooey!” Did I mention she can’t stand vomit?
Sandy was the best evidence that animals have feelings and personalities. She adapted extremely well to life with people, and learned a few keywords that we knew she could understand. Her favorite phrase was “wanna go for a walk?” which would instigate a series of whimpers and jumping that would not be satisfied until she was out the door. Muttering “go get your leash” would only add to the chaos and would prompt her to grab the leash out of my hand. I would have to sneak out if I for whatever reason wanted to go for a walk alone, lest I let down Sandy and have to stare at her big, wishful puppy eyes and experience the soul-crushing disappointment in glowing from within, something you could not have escaped from unscathed, unless you were completely inhuman.
I’m not sure where Sandy picked up the phrases about going for a walk, since I didn’t take her for very many walks until a few years ago, when I started putting on weight (more than now, if it was possible without being fatal) and made it a point start exercising, even if it was just a little. I also wanted to make sure Sandy had enough exercise, a task she was more than willing to go along with. It was clear she never learned how to properly walk on a leash, however, since she would pull me down the road for most of the walk, only settling down after she was too tired to drag me down the street.
Another phrase she picked up on was “window.” We have a large picture window in the house, just low enough to the ground for Sandy to stand up and look out. Whenever I wanted her to keep an eye out when I was expecting someone, I would shout “Window!” and she would usually let out a quick bark and fly towards the window, looking for people to greet.
Greeting was her specialty, which is probably the one thing that makes her absence so much harder. No matter how long we were gone, Sandy would run to the door, tail wagging at fatal speeds, and let us know she was ecstatic to see us. She really made us feel like we were home.
She also had her own quirks that made her special. Her oddest and most endearing trait was her way of eating her dog food. When she started out, she would grab one piece of food, run into the family room, and throw it in the air. She would then run after it and either throw it again, or simply eat it. This was quite the spectacle, and it never failed to make us smile.
The memory is sort of bittersweet, however, because after her surgery, she actually started throwing her food again. This overjoyed me, and I knew I should video tape it, but after seeing how well she was doing, I thought I could wait until later, because we had plenty of time. This was completely wrong, of course, and she was gone two weeks later. I’ve never really been one to really regret anything I’ve done, but I know I’ll regret not taping this moment.
Fortunately, I had the foresight to start taping Sandy long before hand, and I did capture one of her other quirks on film. We have a garden hose attachment that sprays the water in a powerful stream, and I discovered one summer that Sandy perceived the point where the water hits the ground (but not necessarily the water itself) as some kind of a threat. I should note at this point she hated having water sprayed at her, taking baths, and getting tossed into the lake. Where water was concerned, she had to go into it on her own will, and only if she could touch bottom.
But with the hose, she would lunge at the point of impact, snapping at it in an effort to kill it, usually making entertaining noises as she chewed on the water. She would chase the impact all over the yard in her quest to defeat it, and in her eyes, she did every time I turned off the hose. She would usually end up soaked to the bone, but this didn’t matter to her, because she had achieved a great victory over the evil water stream.
Another thing I never taped was her playing with her toy car. At some point over a lazy summer when I was in elementary school, back when I had time to invent stupid contraptions with little to no value, I took a large toy car and tied a string to one of the roll bars. I would then twirl around the car (usually in an office chair, because it was easier), which would drive perfectly in a circle. I would sometimes add a ramp or two to spice things up, which would result it glorious crashes where the car would cartwheel for a lap or two before flipping over. Add in some head-ons with the couch, and it’s any wonder the car is still in one piece. Damn it all if it wasn’t one of the greatest games ever, and now I want to dust the old car off and give it a run.
At the time, we just got Sparky, who was, if you missed it, evil and wanted to kill things. It should come as no surprise that he wanted to play along and try to devour the car, which would suddenly create a new game where I had to regulate the speed of the car, lest Sparky get it in the clutches of his malevolent fangs. It came to a point where I had to lock him in another room just to race the car myself, something I suspect I’ll have to do if I have kids.
Surprisingly, Sandy got into the game more than Sparky. Whenever I would bring the car out, even if it was months after the last time, she would always recognize it and start whimpering and jumping, because she absolutely loved the car game. The thing was, she was never very good at it, because she was too smart. She figured out almost right away if you stop chasing the car, it would eventually come back around and you could get it. Sparky figured this out, but at least with him, if I kept the car close enough to him, his homicidal rage would force any strategy out of his head and he would focus on killing the car.
Sandy didn’t fall for this trick as much, making the game a little less fun for me, because I would have to engage the car in flying mode just to keep it away from her just to say I could keep it going for more than two laps. Yet she loved the game with a passion, and would bite and lunge at the car with such ferocity, I wondered why she never broke off a tooth or blew out her eye, or at least have a fatal heart attack. Despite her cheating, Sandy’s maniacal devotion to the car game made me always more the happy to play it with her.
One game she immediately took a dislike to was anything involving foam dart guns. This might sound blasphemous for someone who once had a feature about dart guns and has battles with his like-minded Army-bound best friend to live with a dog who hated them, but it was true.
Though Sandy had a feeble reason for hating dart guns: I nearly put her eye out with one. It happened in the days before I was really into dart guns. I was playing around with a plastic ball launcher that I picked up at a garage sale when I got it in my head that Sandy would probably like to chase the balls. I sent forth a small barrage at her, and she responded by standing still indifferently. That is, until she let out a yelp.
I ran over to her to see what was wrong. Apparently, one of the balls hit her in the eye. It was from that point on Sandy didn’t trust anything that looked like a gun. Even though I only had a couple guns that looked close similar to the one that dealt the fateful ball, she figured out right away what could happen if she stuck around when I pulled out a plastic gun. As soon as the darts started flying, she made herself scarce.
Besides those in the toy gun manufacturing industry, just about everyone who met Sandy liked her. She had the sort of warm personality and friendly air that made people want to pet her, though her one weakness was she always wanted to jump up and greet people, which would give a certain conservative mother a reason to shout and be embarrassed when company came ‘round.
C had a few interactions with Sandy over the years. It may surprise many who have read about our history, but I really didn’t have him over too much when I was younger, and in fact didn’t have anyone over at my house until high school., at which point our interests were so different, we never spent too much time just hanging out, so he didn’t have as much time with Sandy as many would think.
That’s not to say he didn’t make a few memories with her. One day, I brought Sandy over to his house to play with his dog, Tucker. Based on how she dealt with other dogs up to that point, I assumed she would harass Tucker to a point he would get annoyed. Instead, he ended up scaring the living daylights out of Sandy, though I think this was because I kept her on her leash, and she felt like she couldn’t get away. Yeah, that’s the ticket…
The title of this article was the nickname C and I came up for Sandy based on a little offensive phrase we cooked up in light of Tucker’s name, which went “Sandy Fandy and Tucker…” If you can’t fill in the rest for yourself, you need to get out more, and to the morally righteous: no, we never finished the phrase either, because it didn’t need to be finished. For some reason, C also pronounced her name “Hon-dy.” He was/is a strange kid.
I met Bob in high school, and he was probably the reason I had people come over to my house as much as I did, because he sort of inserted himself there, and we always had a good time because of our mutual love of Japanese animation. Bob always tried to put up a tough, manly exterior, yet this at least partially melted away when Sandy innocently walked up to him. He would routinely jump around on the floor and play with her, something Sandy always appreciated.
The two also shared a very intimate moment one night when we were watching a particularly bad anime called Physic Wars. During one scene, two characters were romantically staring at each other with the moon in the background. At that exact moment, Sandy looked up at Bob, and Bob looked down at her, and from my perspective, the two were in a perfect position in relation to the characters on screen, with the moonlight further enhancing the mood. I burst out laughing and explained it to Bob, and he just groaned it off out of embarrassment. It’s one of our best memories today.
When I told him about Sandy’s death, he sounded more upset than I thought he would be, and he confessed her really liked Sandy, which I think is only natural.
My other friend, Kevin, was perhaps the most supportive about Sandy, mostly because he loves dogs himself. In an eerie turn of events, it turned out Kevin had a dog that looked just like Sandy when he was younger, but tragically had the dog put to sleep because of a severe skin condition. In some way, Sandy was probably the spiritual link to his departed friend.
Kevin would always play with Sandy whenever he came over, and treated her with almost as much enthusiasm as I did. It’s probably this reason I can’t point out any specific memory involving the two of them, but Kevin was probably the friend who cared about Sandy the most.
After she was diagnosed cancer, the mood was obviously bleak. We had a trip to Casino Windsor planned long in advance, and while I didn’t feel like going, I decided for the sake of my sanity, I had better. The problem was, the person we usually had watch Sandy couldn’t do it, so I had to turn to Kevin. He took on the task, and he did it well. Truthfully, there wasn’t a whole lot to it, but at that point, Sandy was getting worse again, and Kevin showed his he cared by leaving a message telling us Sandy wasn’t eating, and I could tell he was disturbed.
He was the friend I was supposed to hang out with the day we had to put Sandy down. He understood completely when I told him about why we had to do when I called and canceled, and he was deeply saddened when I told him we went through with it. He’s a great friend, and I’m glad he helped me the most difficult time of my life.
It is said animals can sense evil, and Sandy was pretty keen on a girl named Jamie, who was the basis for my short story, Band Girl (Jamie is not really evil, by the way). I had been trying to date Jamie for months after she broke up with her boyfriend (he was a jerk, so I don’t feel bad about going for the rebound), and things seemed to be going well, evidenced by the fact we had kissed a few times and she talked about dating. She eventually decided on another guy, and this led to one of those revelations in my life that I could only appreciate later.
The thing was, Sandy saw it coming before any of us, even my mother, who claimed she was telling me early on it wasn’t going to work out (but who really listens to their mother anyway?) From the moment Sandy met Jamie, she clearly didn’t care for her, and would bark at her constantly until she went away. I don’t remember her doing this to anyone else before or after, though she did eventually stop and got to like Jamie. I now think Sandy was trying to tell me something, and I resolve to listen to dogs about relationship advice from now on, because damn it if they don’t seem to know something.
The one person I wished Sandy could have won over is Christy. As I said, Christy doesn’t care too much for dogs, and she only liked Sandy because of me. You could definitely tell she wasn’t used to animals that jumped in her face and wanted to give love, as opposed to her cats, which were mostly takers. It was probably one of the things I liked least about her.
And then she flipped my world upside down and cried when we had Sandy put down. Truthfully, it most likely had to do with the fact that my mother and I were crying, but Christy was definitely sympathetic toward Sandy, and, perhaps most importantly at the time, me. She did everything a loving fiancée would do and maybe more, and that’s something I can never thank her for enough.
That’s not to say those two didn’t have moments. As I mentioned, after our first kiss, I led Christy into my house, and at that point, Sandy started furiously greeting us, and ended up flipping over an easy chair on me because she was so excited. That was a fine start to Christy’s relationship with Sandy.
There were also the aforementioned crusts Sandy would decorate the house with. Christy also didn’t care for the way Sandy pulled whoever was walking her, or the way she would bark if something startled her. Sandy would also insert herself during our alone time, something Christy really didn’t care for. Neither of them sound very appealing, do they?
There was one time Christy, Sandy, and I stayed up at the cottage while it was chilly one night. The cottage has little insulation and no central heat, so you do the math on how comfortable that was. As Christy and I were going in bed, Sandy leapt under the covers (something she never does unless she’s really cold) and embedded herself in between the two of us. When I attempted to move her, she dug in deeper and gave us the saddest look in the world, hoping that was enough to keep us from throwing her out in the cold. I eventually got her to lie next to me, so I was surrounded by two cute girls that night.
There is no doubt in my mind that Sandy was a special dog, full of love and caring for her family, something this pathetic article can never full explain. As we get on with our lives, we have become used to the silence that was filled with the jingle of a collar. Eventually, I’ll find another furry friend, but not a replacement for Sandy, because this is impossible.
With that, I leave you with one of the last pictures ever taken of Sandy, one that I think best demonstrates how she was in life, and how I hope she is now that she is no longer with us. This picture better represents Sandy than this lousy article, which can’t possibly do justice to her. We’ll always miss you, Sandy-Girl.
Sandy Zasada 1995 - 2007
