Happy Birthday, Charlie. Today you would have been 9 years old.
I can't help remembering when you were still a puppy and we ran into a lady who told us her Westie had lived to be 20 . I turned to you then and said, “Well, Charlie, that’s what we’ll aim for. I’m going to take such good care of you that you’ll break records for Westie longevity.” What a bittersweet memory that is now! Bitter, because I did take good care of you and yet you died so young. But also sweet because every memory of you is sweet and I can’t regret a minute of it.
I’ll never forget the first time I saw you: just three days old, tumbling over your littermates in an effort to nestle closer to your mother. She was a sweet thing, your mama, and didn’t seem to mind in the least when we leaned over to examine her puppies, though she did look a bit anxious when her owner reached down to scoop you all up. Your little ears were like pink commas, you made soft peeping sounds, just like baby chicks, and when you wrapped your tiny paws around my finger and clung for dear life, I was lost. I think that day was the first time I really smiled since the loss of Kris, our 16-year-old poodle-mix three months earlier. You were the cure for my sorrow, Charlie, and I couldn’t wait for the next eight weeks to pass so I could bring you home.
When the time arrived, you seemed terrified and howled in the car until I took you out of your crate and held you next to my heart. And you seemed to get over your fear rather quickly as one of your first acts upon arriving at your new home was to leap onto the coffee table, snatch my best African violet out of the pot, shake it like a rat, and bound through the living room, scattering potting soil in your wake. You were my little “White Tornado,” and that summer you chewed two rosebushes down to raw crowns (you’d think those thorns would’ve hurt!); climbed onto my desk and scattered the manuscript I was editing all over the floor; left paw prints across my computer keyboard; and wet on three checks I had yet to cash. You also terrorized a timid little Golden Retriever in Puppy Kindergarten; stole a rawhide bone from a Mastiff, then had the audacity to growl when he attempted to retrieve it; and slipped your leash at the pet store where you led me and five salespeople on a merry chase up and down the aisles before darting under a display case where we finally cornered you.
But what you did most of all, Charlie, was charm everyone you met. Mischievous though you undoubtedly were, there was never any malice in you. I don’t think it would have occurred to you to bite anyone or behave aggressively, and you always assumed that everyone was as delighted to meet you as you were to meet them. You never got over your belief that the real purpose of a walk was to visit the neighbors, and I met so many people because of you whom I might never have spoken to otherwise. I don’t think you ever met a stranger and everyone from neighborhood children to pizza delivery boys to the mailman with whom you were always trying to hitch a ride (I was convinced you’d turn up in Canada someday with a date stamp on your tail!) were all members of your fan club. Your life may have been, and in fact was, far too short, but you nevertheless crammed more living into your eight years, eleven months and twenty-four days than most humans do in 80.
I wanted so much for you to live to see this birthday, Charlie. When I first learned you were ill, I was determined to have you well in time for an extra special birthday celebration with all your dog and human friends in attendance. As you grew thinner and frailer, I prayed only that we’d have this day together, with at least a full nine full years to look back on, but to my eternal sorrow it was not to be. You left this world a week and a day ago, and believe me, it’s a much poorer place without you. In the past week I have seen you everywhere: on the sofa where you liked to nap with a pillow tucked between your paws and your little white snout resting on top; at the window where you sat for hours keeping track of the neighbors and barking at passing cats; in the squirrel who runs along the back fence where you chased so many in pretended outrage. Most of all I see you in Belle, your fur-sister and lifelong companion: in her sadness as she seeks the places where your scent lingers; in her sighs as she stares off into the distance; in the sudden, leaping light in her eyes when she hears, sees or smells something that reminds her of you; and in the sorrow that settles over her when she realizes it isn’t.
Charlie, I hope you know how much joy you gave both Belle and me in the all-too-brief time we had together. I hope you know that everything I did toward the end, from leaving you at the hospital to subjecting you to endless diagnostic tests. from poking you with needles to forcing pills and fluids down your throat, was done from love and a desperate desire to save you. Most of all, I hope you know how very much you were loved and what a gaping hole you’ve left, not only in my life but in the lives of everyone your cold wet nose touched. I may have another dog someday, maybe even another Westie, but there will never be another Charlie. You were one of a kind. You were the best. You were and are irreplaceable, and I will miss you every day until we meet again at the Rainbow Bridge.
Happy Birthday, sweet boy. Wherever you are.
Love always,
Mama (Barbara)