Even when you know a hard thing is coming, that doesn’t make it any easier when the hard thing happens. This morning I got that call from my dad, he was at the vets with our dog Shortstop. Shorty has been not doing so well lately, and this time there was nothing they could do. Shortstop is, was, an old, old man of a dog. We’ve known for a while that we didn’t have much more time with him. And now that his time has finally come to close, it wasn’t a bad close. He was just worn out. A worn out old little man.
Shorty lived to be crazy old for a dog, even a Jack Russell. He had 17 great years with our family. He was spoiled rotten. I know my friends remember him from his puppy days and the spazz that he was. It’s a little weird to think how long Shorty’s been there. Middle school, high school, college, the wandering years before I finally settled in LA. He was the hardest thing to move away from. You can talk to your parents on the phone, you can IM with your brother. You can’t snuggle your dog when you’re thousands of miles away.
When I did leave for college, he was not happy about the situation. He learned what the suitcases meant and the second they appeared he would start his sulk. I would turn around to grab that next pile of clothes to pack and when I’d turn back, he’d have plopped his butt right in the middle of my suitcase. He either figured that would make it impossible to leave or I’d have to take him with me. And when I did finally leave for a semester, lord help my stuffed animals if the door to my bedroom was ever left open. He was the scourge of my plushies. I lost more than one pillow to his teeth. I would get phone calls from my parents, their voices solemn, to tell me that yet another beloved toy had fallen victim to his wrath. Lesson? Don’t ever leave your dog behind.
When I was in high school he was known to be a great enemy to pants. He would happily tear a hole in any pair of new jeans. But he also loved to snuggle and would make himself at home on your lap. It was great but it was best if you didn’t try to stand up before he was ready to move. Once he sat there, your lap was his. He also made getting out of bed on weekends impossible. After his morning walk, and sometimes before, he’d come snuggle up and just want to love you all morning long. How do you get up when you have a ball of love and scruff curled in your arms, wanting nothing more than to be close to you?
He calmed down a lot in the last few years. My friends who knew him in high school, college, even six years ago when I first moved to LA, know how rambunctious he was. Which I know, is a nice word for his high energy. He could get snippy with strangers but he was just crazy loyal to his family.
He had his other quirks. He never liked water. We always had a pool and I think we all tried at one time or another to get him into it. Especially in Phoenix where my mom figured he might like the respite from the unrelenting summer heat. But no. He could swim, didn’t mean he ever wanted to. We know he could swim because of that one time in Florida when he decided it would be a great idea to chase the ducks into the canal. The ducks all jumped into the water and started to swim away from the manic little fur ball chasing them. My parents thought he would stop at the edge of the water but no, he kept on going. And going. And going. To the point where my dad had to jump into the canal after him. I’m not entirely sure how he got away in the first place, I just remember my dad showing up at home with Shorty in his arms. They were both dripping and smelled, well, like south Florida canal. Which is not a good thing, I promise. I somehow ended up being the one who got to wash the muck off of Shorty, his white fur temporarily a dull brown. I threw him in the shower with the water that he hated, because when you’ve just chased a flock of ducks into a canal, that’s the best you’re going to get. He was not happy with me but he smelled much better once it was over.
We got Shorty when he was puppy. We lost our last Jack Russell, Star, that summer to one of those stupid poison toads that were everywhere in our hometown. I was away for the summer so it was my parents and my brother who went to find a puppy. While my parents were getting to know the litter of bouncing Jacks, one little monkey ignored them and went straight for my brother’s attention. They knew immediately he was the smartest of the bunch and the decision of which one to pick was made easy. He got his name Shortstop from a minivan full of little leaguers. Because obviously you have to name a dog after baseball.
Monster was my nickname for him because of, well, most of the above. He was a little monster. But he was my little monster and he knew it. He would even answer when I called him that. He answered to Shortstop, Shorty, Monster, Shorty Monster, Monkey Butt. He knew his names and he knew us and we belonged to each other completely.
My dad and Shorty on a typical evening.
In the last few years, he answered less and less when he was called. His hearing was going, as was his vision. But he would still come snuggle into your lap. He’d roll over and let you rub his belly for hours on end. I’d come home and he’d be there to greet me. He’d start his sulk when he saw me start to pack my bags. I’ve known these last few months that he had only so many greetings left for me. He’s been happy but he’s been slow. On top of his dulling senses, he was arthritic and had a hard time walking, he wasn’t eating much, and we could just tell he was winding down. But he was still happy. He still loved to snuggle. And no matter what, he always let me know I was home.
I’m gonna miss you, Monkey. You were the best little monster a girl could have.
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