I thought Wednesday night was bad, but found Thursday night was a whole lot worse after Charlie Brown, the most wonderful dachshund the good Lord ever created, was no longer sharing my pillow.

Charlie, who came into my life almost 17 years ago when I heard about a guy who needed to give her away on the radio one morning, had to be put down on Thursday when our veterinarian found the cancer was so bad that the dog could no longer digest her food, and she was now having a tough time walking.

We’d been up much of Wednesday night because she was so sick, but Thursday, after she didn’t come home with me from the vet, my other dog, the one I call Scooter, who sleeps at the foot of the bed, got up twice in the night, and I could hear him going from one room to the next to make sure Charlie just hadn’t forgotten to come to bed.

My two dogs had a very unusual deal. Charlie, who was very much the matriarch at our house, had a warm nest in a big leather chair in the living room, and, when the Milk Bones would tumble from the box in the mornings, Scooter would gulp his down while Charlie would hide hers, saving them for a little later.

As the day progressed, Scooter would think of ways to lure the queen from her throne so he could dash in and steal one of her biscuits, and Charlie would play the younger dog like a Stradivarius, finally letting him get one or two.

In return, there would be a time late in the afternoons when they’d both be gnawing on their rawhide chews, and Charlie’s attention would be drawn to the way Scooter, younger and bigger, would be making mincemeat of his.

So Charlie would growl, only once or twice, and Scooter would bring his softer, more pliable chew over to where the old girl was, and they’d swap. Now I don’t know how you feel about that, but Thursday night, as I heard Scooter plop back down at the foot of the bed and softly groan when he couldn’t find Charlie, that meant the world to me.

Charlie had a pedigree, but Scooter had come from a far-bigger extended family. I read once there was this company where you could send a swab of the dog’s saliva, and they could determine its DNA, but if I sent in some of Scooter’s, it would have broken the machine. Trust me on this one, Scooter is a dog of many fathers.
When the kids brought Scooter home, he was just about five weeks old and had more diseases than a little village in rural India. I sent him to the vet the next day so he could be put down, but the kids came back to gleefully tell me Dr. Keller thought he may be able to save him and for me to send him a check for more than we could have bought an entire litter.

So once the puppy got home, Charlie Brown did more mothering than any of the rest of us, and a deep friendship was born that lasted six years until this week.

I’ll never forget the night I came home with what I thought was the flu, and those two dogs hovered so close it was unbelievable. Every time I would push them away, they just snuggled in closer, and about 3 a.m. the pain got so bad that I couldn’t handle it. I went to the hospital with a bad infection that had resulted in blood poisoning, and it wasn’t lost on me that my dogs knew more than I did.

Thursday night, as Scooter and I lay awake in the darkness, and each of us held Charlie in our hearts, I reminded my loveable mutt that I deeply believe heaven is a place where every dog you ever loved will lick you in the face that very first day you’re there. As I did, it dawned on me what an immeasurable blessing that little dachshund had been for so long in my life.

So, before dawn Friday morning, I dreamed of the way Charlie, those short little legs flying and those ears flopping just so, would tear across summer’s green grass every single day to welcome me home, and how never, not even once, did that not mean the world to me.

So, I cherish the promise that will bring the day when Charlie Brown, the best little dachshund ever, will lick my face again because, boy, I dearly loved that little one.

royexum@aol.com