My brother’s dog passed away today. She was eight years old. He had raised her from a baby.
That’s what she was – a baby.
When he brought her home, he kept her in a cyclone-fence cage in the kitchen. Yep, my mom let him move the table out of the room so he could kennel the dog there. He kept this dog at his side constantly, training her with every motion or word. She could anticipate his every command, and would stop whatever she was doing in less than a heartbeat if my brother made a sound.
She was his shadow. They walked together, hunted in the park district woods and alleys. She was always perfectly behaved in public. Even when a large bully dog would try to instigate something with her, she would remain stockstill unless Greg gave her the go-ahead to defend herself.
She was gentle as could be with my sister’s babies, my children. She would ‘watch our backs’ when we slept over at their house during visits. She would curl up in the patch of sunshine on the front porch, following it with little movements so she was always warm.
When she was happy, she would run into the front room and ‘slide into home’, lying on her back and wiggling around. She would pester Mom for a tiny bit of waffle with syrup and butter every morning. My brother would come downstairs and say, “Little, you smell like syrup. Did Mommy give you a waffle?” It was their little routine.
She would lie by my dad’s chair when he took his daytime naps. She would bark at him when he made ‘mouth noises.’ She would tolerate the other dogs that come to visit, only occasionally and decisively keeping them in line.
She was soft and shiny. She didn’t have an ounce of fat on her muscular body. She had a head shaped like a shovel.
She liked to play “Fist” and “Watch Out for the Pointy Stick.” She would occasionally make ‘monkey brains’ out of her stuffed animals.
She was loving and sweet. She was an American Pit Bull Terrier. She was beautiful and rare and wonderful.
We’re all going to miss her very very much.
Love you Little.