For those of you who don't know, our dear old Thurston died on August 20th. He had an amazing life that extended beyond the scope of other people's reason. "Isn't that dog dead yet?" was a regular salutation, especially after he started wearing diapers at night. Yes. And then when our nearly 15 year-old Springer-Irish setter mix could no longer move and we were unable to manage his pain -- yes, he lay dying, whimpering despite quadruple the dose of doggie morphine -- we brought him to the vet for the final shot. We draped ourselves around that dog for hours before his death and were all there at the end. To say that it went badly is perhaps the understatement of the century. The children screamed and wailed. When I was returning to the tiny room where we were saying our final good-byes, the somber couple in the waiting room exchanged whispers: "It doesn't sound good in there, does it?" "Horrible."
Thurston! Kiss the next snout you see. This was a dog who could savor a meaty bone while children climbed on his back.
Scruffy came with the name and his story is next. But this turned into a post about our old dog.