Susan's old dog has been dead one year.
She can hardly believe it's been that long since she was gassed out of a room by extreme flatulence.

Susan gets all misty thinking about how she'd watch the old dog eat too fast, throw up, then eat the vomit.

It seems like only yesterday that she stepped in dog pee every damned day, and that sometimes the pee seeped through the floorboards & dripped onto the basement floor below.

Memories.

This time last year Susan's dog was dying.
The dog wasn't popular outside of her immediate family but that didn't seem to bother her. She had an enviable confidence and never sought extraneous approval.

She carried herself with feminine grace even though she wasn't considered classically pretty and most folks referred to her as him.

She made no apologies for her few shortcomings, she had as much right as anyone to lie on the floor and fart.

When she was permanently banished from Susan's bed she didn't waste time whining, she showed her adaptability by jumping into then next available bed down the hall.

Susan really misses warming her feet under that formerly alive dog at the end of her bed.

Susan still thinks she sees her previously alive dog in the house. She walks into the livingroom and habit makes her look to the spot where the dog used to lie. A chenille blanket bunched up in a corner of the couch tricks her for a second. She still closes the bathroom door to keep the dog from drinking out of the toilet and maneuvers around the large plastic bin holding her food in the laundry room. The husband reports to hear the dog walking through the house in the morning. Mercifully, no one smells the dog.

Susan's not a grief purist & didn't think she needed to wait an appropriate amount of time before she allowed another dog into the house. She views the situation more simply; her family needs a dog and they found a dog who needs to live somewhere other than a cage. It's like a Hallmark card, one that bites.

Susan has been preparing for the final days of her elderly, semi-continent, arthritic dog by giving her food from the table, letting her sleep on the couch and by not over reacting when she pees on Susan's feet.

The twelve year old boxer has slowed down but still able to enjoy her usual compliment of activities; roaming the yard, licking grease from the barbecue, having a nosh from the compost pile, trying to hump the neighbor's dog. Then last week she took to the couch and didn't leave except to eat and go potty, by invitation. When Susan came home from work the dog would barely look up, making no effort to move around or even wag her tail. Sad stuff. Susan knew that the dog would not be around to beg for food at Thanksgiving.

Susan took an old quilt and threw it on top of the dog's bed for when she couldn't make it back onto the couch. Susan watched as the dog attempted to position herself on the quilt, obviously in pain, but collapsed instead and fell asleep as if she had no strength at all to make the teeniest adjustment to her limbs or head. From this point on Susan began checking that the dog was still breathing and discussed with the husband about where they would bury her.

Friday night Susan had a date with her little sister to watch 'All About Eve' at cousin Lisa's house. She told everyone of her impending loss, got a little sympathy then they all sat down to watch watching Bette Davis and Celeste Holm grow to hate Anne Baxter.

Saturday morning Susan's neighbor came over to let his dogs run in her yard, this attracted the elderly, deaf dog's attention so she got off the couch and hobbled outside to see what was up. She seemed to make a teeny bit of a comeback keeping her distance from the other dogs but walking and pooping with much less of a labored effort.
For the rest of the afternoon she was barking at trick or treaters, following people into the kitchen and walking down the back steps of the deck instead of falling down them. At dinner she took her usual spot underneath the dining table instead of sleeping through it in the living room.

This is all Susan needed to cheer her up and banish the dog from the couch once again.

Susan Can Smell Her Dog from the Other Room

Susan's elderly, deaf, flatulent dog is inching toward the end of her life. She's just short of 84 but still pretty spry. She doesn't use a walker, smear her lipstick across her face or repeat the same stories over and over, but she has a bit of an incontinence issue and needs help with her personal grooming. Susan's not cleaning poopie off hineys yet, just some boogery eyes and blood.
The dog has been drinking more water than usual lately and has required entire afternoons of beauty sleep although the latter has done nothing to improve her looks, poor girl.

The dog's always in a good mood unlike some TWISTED people she lives with and will hop up from a dead sleep to follow anyone going anywhere in the house hoping there'll be food at the end.

Susan's hipped her medium sized children to the impending expiration date on their dog and watched as they've been extra sweet to her or reward her with cookies for doing nothing and then talk with animated excitement about replacing her with a furry puppy.

Susan's Mongrel Dog Is Sick: An Update

Most of the symptoms of the mongrel dog's digestive ailment have come & gone, save one;
her extreme flatulence.

Boxers are an eruptive breed to begin with. Imagine the aroma of burning rubber & dog poop dispersed as a gas in the middle of your living room.

The flatulent boxer often provides and audible warning,
a gentle hissing not unlike air escaping from a punctured bicycle tire. However, the last few days there is nothing gentle about the sound she emits.
It's loud, like a whoopee cushion.
Susan is not exaggerating, it sounds like a whoopee cushion.

Moments ago, sleeping soundly in her dog bed, she passed gas through her whoopee cushion.
And woke herself up.

Susan's Mongrel Dog Is Sick

Under normal circumstances Susan's mongrel can be expected to be flatulent. This week she can also be expected to poop in the house, vomit and whimper all night long to be let out.
Mercy!

Being a boxer, Susan's mongrel really isn't a mongrel at all, Susan just uses this term to illustrate how ill mannered the boxer is.

The dog sleeps on the couch even though she's got a perfectly nice dog bed close to all the action.
She begs for food which exasperates Susan no end and she blames the husband for this appalling behavior.
No matter how shrill and hysterical Susan's complaints have been, he absolutely will not stop feeding that dog from the table!
She pees in the house whenever there's a lot of company.
She pees in the house even when there's not a lot of company.
She lies down in the middle of everything, blocking traffic patterns.
And she doesn't keep her toenails groomed. The racket that this dog makes walking around the house drowns out the television.
Oy.

The flatulent dog is getting close to the end of her expected lifespan. She limps a little and sits sidesaddle. She's deaf and can't be counted on to get her snout out of the garbage when yelled at.
However, one benefit of her advancing decrepitude is that she can no longer jump on Susan's bed and make holes in the bedding.

For two days the bathroom habits of the flatulent, deaf dog have been unpredictable.
Last night Susan and the husband were repeatedly roused from their beauty sleep in order to let her out to dirty the yard. And while she's out she takes the opportunity to walk the perimeter, smelling everything in sight and barking at nothing in particular.
Susan waits, as trained, at the door in her underwear with a cookie.