I was so busy with family stuff over that past week that I didn't get to blog at all. We drove 2300 miles roundtrip to Lubbock, Texas, where we spent a week playing Catchphrase, Trivial Pursuit, and eating. My dad came along to entertain the wee boy in the back seat, which was most excellent for the boy (and for our ears), but sad for my mom, who was left behind by her lonesome.
With two dogs to keep her company on Christmas.
Guinness is gone, my friends. He would have been 11 in March, which is a few years longer than Great Danes usually live. I guess he surprised us all in that respect. It's weird to not be able to say goodbye though.
But he was in pain, and was gently put down at home by a wonderful veterinarian who makes house calls. (Getting Guinness to a vet's office was impossible first because his vet wasn't working this week and second because the 150-pound doggie couldn't get off of the couch, much less make it to the car.) I didn't meet Dr. LeMay because I was somewhere in Texas when she came over to my mom's house. Mom said she was wonderful and kind and sweet, and, as weird as it sounds, Mom is going to call her when it's time for the remaining doggie to go.
Anyway, I'm trying to grieve for my favorite puppy dog. The one who was big enough to spoon with. Who had a weird habit of never, ever, ever, going pee or poo unless it was in his own backyard, even if we were on a five-mile-walk. The dog who used to go on 2am walks with me after gigs and no one would mess with us because he was so intimidating. The dog who rarely ever barked. The dog who once hid a bag of potato chips in his crate, saving them for later. The dog who won all the graduation games at obedience school, but who would steal your sandwich off the top of the microwave the minute you walked out the front door. Poor lonely George's best friend.
Miss you, Guinness!