I can barely bring myself to write this, but about three weeks ago my best bud, the one who kept me sane through her complete and utter acceptance of crazy me, died at age 14½.
Téa, aka Chubby, our smooth fox terrier, knew me, and I knew her inside and out. Being a terrier, she was a handful. As a 9-month-old, she once jumped on the kitchen counter, opened a window and jumped out 9 feet to the ground.
Another time she jumped on the counter, turned the hot water on and flooded the kitchen and the basement below.
She could bite through anything to get at food, including a plastic peanut-butter jar, a can of soda pop (clean through, mind you), boxes and bags of all kinds.
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Once she jumped on the dining-room table, where she found a pineapple and ate half of it. She learned how to open pedal waste cans and big cans with tight, push-down lids.
She loved to watch TV and bark at horses and dogs she would see on the screen.
She often stood on my shoulders like a parrot to lick my face.
She traveled to Denmark twice, because technically she was my son’s dog and he wanted her companionship when he played soccer there.
She could run like the wind, bark like hell, nuzzle me like there was no end to time, follow me no matter where I might go, never miss a chance for an ear fluff and rub.
When she went deaf and nearly blind, she’d spin in circles in the backyard to make sure I was still out there with her. I was Chub, all the time.
She slept at my side all these many years, and I can’t begin to explain how much I miss her.
Love you, Téa, and wherever you are, I know you’re happy, watching TV, eating something you shouldn’t, barking like hell and, I hope, missing me as much as I miss you just about every moment of the day.
Nick Provenza, 206-464-2142 or firstname.lastname@example.orgTwitter: @NickProvenza1