This morning, walking Burren, I heard a familiar call from across the street. It was Raquel, and she was just walking one dog--Georgy Girl, the dachshund. Hadn't seen her in a while, but I knew. Cal was gone.
22 years old. This past October. A very rare milestone (the record is 29, and just two dogs are known to have lived that long).
He was originally somebody else's dog, but he became hers, by way of random events. Old when she got him, but she had him longer than some people have dogs they got as puppies.
(If you want to know what she fed him--same food she fed herself. Chicken, rice, vegetables. Whatever she cooked, he ate. Go figure.)
She was still feeling it, of course. It really doesn't matter, you know. If they lived to be 80, we'd still grieve--all the more.
These are photos I posted to the blog back in '08 and '09. A decade ago. I've relatively few of him, and these are the easiest ones to find--he looks young, doesn't he? He was already around 12.
He and Max were friends a long time--they got each other. Both calm adult males, who liked calm adult interaction. They'd have friendly little pissing contests. By which I mean one of them would urinate on something. The other would respond in kind. It would go back and forth, arguments and ripostes. Cal would always get the final word in, paw the sidewalk with his hindfeet to signify that was all. Max would always respect that. He believed in seniority.
So do I. Bye, Cal. If I feel drops, I'll know you're having another pissing contest up there.
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