December 11, 2016

​My first male Westie Duncan died 10 years ago today. Chunky love muffin. Sweet boy. He would have been 14 in less than three months of his death. He had lung cancer, but I didn't know it until the end. He collapsed on a Sunday night and flopped on the floor like a fish. I held him next to me on the couch all night, and took him to the vet the next day. He didn't come home: he was euthanized in my arms. Duncan loved to chase laser beams or watch glass reflections like a cat. He also had inexplicable occurrences of shaking which I referred to as "earthquakes." I think he would say that the best night of his life resulted from my father injecting him with the insulin meant for his sister: the veterinary clinic kept him up all night feeding him as a counter measure! I'll never forget the moment: "Ralph!" What, Dad?" "I think I shot the wrong dog." "Does it have a penis?" Yes." "Then you shot the wrong dog." "What do you want me to do?" "Shoot the other dog while I call the vet."