The hardest part

Anyone that knows me knows I love me some dogs. Big ones, small ones, all of ‘em. Can’t get enough of them. I hardly even visit shelters anymore because I’ll get attached or get ideas or look at one who so desperately needs out of there and I know I can’t save them all.

I’ve known some pups who were some characters in my time. The first ones I have memories with were the Boxer I grew up with and the Golden Retriever my grandparents had.

Greta was my girl. Goofy, smart and loyal to a fault. Fetched her days away and served as the first Smith family groundhog exterminator. And let me tell you, she was good.

Her absence still hits hard, even years and years later.

My grandparent’s fur child, Cody, was truly top tier. That dog put up with my cousin and I constantly using him as a pillow and tying his fur in bows.

He never failed to keep an eye on us kids, even when stairs got to be too much for him. He’d stand at the other side and bark, telling us he was there but wasn’t too pleased he couldn’t come with.

This dog was even a pro at riding in the car. He’d hop into my papaw’s SUV and knew each and every turn and stop sign, bracing himself as they went to the gas station for cigarettes and lottery tickets.

My aunt had three dogs as my cousin and I grew up. A mix, Chloe; a Bulldog, Freckles and Freckles’ son, Biebs.

Chloe and Freckles were quite the pair, spending their golden years snoozing and seeking out attention whenever they pleased. The wild child was put in his place a time or two, and he and his mother created a remarkable chorus of snores and almost-silent farts.

It’s funny how something that only shares life with us for a short while can leave such a big impact when it’s gone. Those however many years can be filled with memories, laughter and love until the day comes.

But despite the end being the hardest part, we know we’d go through it all again just for the love and companionship.