I have been putting off writing this post. Winchester is gone. Damn it.
We know how this goes. We love them and love them and love them and, still, we confront the grand defect: lifespan which doesn’t mesh with ours. Winchester was eleven years old. I had delusions that maybe we could get to fourteen. Fourteen would not be enough.
I’m missing his big personality. And big feet. The morning snorting. The way he danced before meals – rocking back and pawing enthusiastically. His good nature. How he met me at the door always with a stuffed animal in his mouth. And if he couldn’t find a toy he’d bring a dirty sock from the laundry basket, a tin can he’d stolen off the counter, or a throw pillow from the sofa. How he’d stand on the edge of the deck on his tip toes and smell the air putting his nose as high as could. His floppy ears and how they were so, so soft. How he refused to stay out of the garden. How he shake a hamburger before he ate it. How he hated to be left behind. He was a really good dog.
Winchester. Winnie. Greycott Willful. September 2003 – October 2014.