MR. WIGGLES. A FINE BOY.

This is the first week without our brave Maltipoo since a summer day in 2013.  That was the day I drove from Durham to the beach, stopping in each shelter along the way, looking for just the right rescue pup for our family.  Our granddaughter needed a small dog, one she could carry.  My husband and I needed a dog who wouldn't follow its nose and run away from our unfenced property in the woods (like our lovely beagle Missy from years past). 

I was still missing Lucy, our goldendoodle who lived with us for 14 years until we took her to the vet to ease her from life into death.  Lucy had been abused and wouldn't come into the house.  We filled her doghouse with blankets and set it on the front deck.  We covered it with a tarp in winter, heating her kibble with water to warm her tummy.  She never ran away.  When I went outside, there was Lucy.  When I rested from yard work, there was Lucy.  When we got home, there was Lucy.  When the grandchildren played, there was Lucy. 

Now it was Mr. Wiggles' turn.  I found him in foster care at the beach.  The foster care mom said, "He follows me everywhere."  That's what he does, I discovered.  He chooses someone to love and follow.  I chose him and he chose me. 

Mr. Wiggles already had his name.  The first night he cried a little.  But not the second or third.  By then he had decided to love and trust me.  We drove home from the beach, and he met the rest of the family, the others who would do for him all the things he couldn't do for himself:  open doors, fill his bowl, hand him treats, lift him onto cushions he couldn't reach, rub his belly . . . .  He must have been 3 or 4 when I "rescued" him. 

Wiggles never weighted more than 10 pounds.  In his prime, Wiggie could rout a herd of deer, stand down a rat snake, chase (but not catch) a lizard, ignore a goose or German shepherd, and greet another small dog with glee.

Not 3 months before death

Wigs was all black until gray began appearing under his chin.  As he slowed down these last months, he stuck even closer to us, under our chair, under our feet.  A six-year-old niece came, and he stayed in his bed, declining to play.  His yellow ducky lay untouched.  Even treats took persuasion.  We let all the rules lapse.  My husband gave him bites of his burger.  We fed him early and often.  We tried to anticipate his needs since stress triggered his collapsing trachea.  

The vet started talking about compassionate euthanasia, readying us for its eventuality.  Every time I brought him in, nothing could be done.  He was blind in one eye, yet handsome as usual.  I made one appointment and, on the day, canceled it.  When all the signs were there, I wrapped him in his Christmas blanket and took him in.  He didn't react to the other dogs in the waiting room.  He stayed still in my arms, the boy who had been named Mr. Wiggles for a reason. I spent a long time holding him and giving thanks for the love he had shown us.  I told him, "This is for you."  "We are doing this for you, sweet boy."  He breathed contentedly.  

I am grateful for the animals we have had in our lives, since my first dog, Heidi, a cocker spaniel I received for my 5th birthday.  Years later, our daughter brought home a cat-free-to-a-good-home from preschool that she named Kitty Little. We had a bloodhound, Juniper, who was hit by a car.  When he left for law school, our son bequeathed us a cat who lived a long life. 

I texted our grandson about Wiggles' death.  He replied, "Poor Mr. W.  I remember him valiantly trying to protect us from a rat snake.  He was nothing if not a good boy."