R.I.P. Guinness - September 28, 2008–August 15, 2024
Dear Guinness,
I can still picture how you were, the day we met you. You lived in a house with six other Boston terriers, who swirled around our feet in a skein of black and white fur and tongues and snorts—beautiful, comedic chaos as we entered the foster family's door. I had sought you out of a sea of Bostons, but lucky for us, you were the only one being fostered in Colorado at that moment, through our favorite rescue. When I saw your name, I knew I had to meet you. With a name like that, you had to be Irish, after all. As you untangled yourself from the fury of fur and paws, you made a point to put yourself a head above the rest by running straight to us, kissing Justin and me on the cheek with equal affection, and leaping onto the couch, already stretched in nap-shape, and landing on your side. You were ours.
You came to us shortly after our first house purchase, and after my blood clot episode, despite being born a year and a half prior, so serendipitously, the day after our wedding. I remember the initial days of reluctant hesitation in getting a dog—how we wondered how we could ever forfeit the chance to leave whenever we wanted, and not have to clean up messes, or pay for fancy kibble, or find use for a lint remover. We got lucky on the latter, because you didn't shed, anyway.
It took a couple of weeks to get over our selfish inhibitions, and you and I became kindred spirits when we were in each other's company. You were my shadow. What was life even like before you? We can't remember. Oh, and your anxiety when we first left you! It actually brought me to tears to leave you because you pined for us so hard. A friend said, "imagine how terrifying it must be for a dog, to watch their owners walk out the door without any certainty when and if they would return." ...and in your case, especially after being abandoned once.
He became my forever heating pad, tucked ever-so-snugly into my midsection—my 1/4 teaspoon—my croissant dog—from that moment on.
It got to the point that you would be on my lap before my legs reached a full 90 degrees to sit. You bull charged in the yard, anytime you felt like showing off for a friend, and you nubby-wagged, furiously, and dove head-first into your multitude of sweaters we accumulated from Big Lots, garage sales, thrift stores...and Doggie Delights, when we felt like splurging. You, sir, were the most dapper gent in town. Our favorite shirt read, "King of the Beach," a nickname affectionately coined by Justin's coworkers to describe you.
We cannot forget your greeting for us. Each time we pulled in the driveway, we'd sit, count to five, and watch the curtains on the upstairs window start to sway until your "lasagna noodles," (which we called your ears) appeared, barely clearing the window sill. You would peer out at us, and once you saw the car, you'd disappear, and reappear at the back gate with a trill and ear-piercing bark of joy at our return. You once honked the horn in the truck, waiting for us to come back from the store, and even escaped the truck window when we were at RCIA, but instead of running away, you circled the parking lot in search of us, and just went back to the truck, and stood there, patiently waiting until we got back.
No one made us feel more like we belonged than you.
I once had your leash on a run, but tripped on a tree root, and starfished on the path. You took off for a good 100 yards of newfound Shawshank freedom until your conscience got the best of you—or, you remembered who fed you—and you came back to help me brush off the dirt and keep going. You learned how to open gates, and the prime time to scout a tabletop when you knew we were distracted ("did you guys eat the rest of my sandwich?"). You even scored a T-bone from a neighbor during a Christmas tree hunt. You were a genius.
Your days here were not all sunshine and rainbows, but the way you handled what came your way is tear-jerking, humbling, and astonishing. Perhaps the most notable cross you bore was at Justin's office in downtown Denver 11 years ago. I'd like to think your food obsession ended up saving the life of Justin or any one of his coworkers, the day you did your usual crumb sweep in his office kitchen. You rounded a corner, and almost immediately came skittering out at top speed, straight back to your dad, with a single drop of blood on your muzzle, which was later found to be a rattlesnake bite. Shortly afterwards, the culptit—a baby rattler—was found coiled by a kick plate, beneath a kitchen cabinet, just as startled as you were. Justin left in a frenzy on the hunt for the nearest veterinary hospital with anti-venom, fearing the worst, and praying for mercy, and the ability to delicately explain what had transpired to his then 7-months-pregnant, and very hormonal wife. We were oh-so-protected, though, thanks be to God. The vet said the snake must have struck once, but missed, and ejected most of the venom, and struck again, only puncturing you once, with and an iota of venom, which gave you a chance. You were drooling, half swollen on one side of your neck, yet you never whimpered or cried, and after a couple hours of monitoring and IV fluids, they called us to ask politely when the earliest convenience would be for us to come retrieve you. You were pacing, and antsy to get out of there, and on with the show.
And, on with the show you went. Many road trips, and hotels, camping trips, coyote encounters, and even boat rides on Lake Powell, and annual hikes to cut down Christmas trees in the mountains as "Santa Paws" for several years running, and countless puppy and kiddo playdates later, here you were. You were with me through unemployment and accomplishments, confirmations and baptisms, postpartum depression, infertility struggles, surgeries, heartbreaking disbanding of friendships, and other friends whose lives ended far sooner than they should have. Always a listening ear, always welcoming me back no matter how imperfect I was. I joke that you were our first-born, though you were there for that, too, and you still found a way to snuggle through the hole in the boppy as I was nursing. Paige swears you were so jealous she came along, and she may be right, but being the unconditionally forgiving and loyal soul that you are, you came to accept her and love her as your own little girl, too. And, five years down the road, you took in Sarah, perhaps because of your common thread as a foster, then a full-blown adoptee, who changed our lives immeasurably.
You went blind unexpectedly, after a brief bout with a luxated lens in the only good eye you had. A Colorado cataract took the other one. This caused severe glaucoma, which terminated the function in your optic nerve. One day you could see; the next day you couldn't, and the result of this was almost as devastating as our last day with you. We padded sharp corners with cut-up pool noodles to soften the blow, and yelled if legos were left out for you to step on. Furniture arrangements had to remain consistent, and eventually we had to carry you up and down the stairs when your muscles atrophied from lack of confident movement. But you relented, and absorbed all the extra snuggles we gave you because of it. Rarely would you squirm away. You taught us how to be more simplistic, and to "nubbywag" just as hard for a stranger as your own kin, and to appreciate stillness and togetherness, and the luxury of the company more than our surroundings. If only we could imitate the fidelity of our dogs, we'd never feel out of place or purposeless in this world, again.
Someone sure missed out when they passed you along...Twice! At two different dog adoption events! My life would have so many fewer stories had they not. I secretly think my guardian angel hid you until our eyes fell upon you. And, I can never quite thank him or you enough. Professor Bottomtoofs, AKA, NubbyWaggins, Guinny Von Gingershnoots, Lasagna Noodles, Spaetzle Plops, Fart Potato, Señor Snoot Booper, Croissant Dog, Bull Charger, GuinnyBeans, Guinny Galapagos, Tennis, GuinnGuinn, DinDin, Guinness Stollsteimer III, Esquire, I'll be praying that when God makes all things new, He means our furballs, too.
To the best dog that ever was,
Love Amy of CO
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