Farewell Fuzzy, Fezzy Friend

We don’t have a dog anymore. Not just not living with us–anywhere.

We got him as a puppy in 1998, an accessory to our first house and yard, rescuing him from living in the ghetto in a garage and rusted-out car body with about nine other dogs. He was the same size as our cat then, and so at first seemed to think they were the same type of creature, but we knew he’d get big, being a black-lab-plus-whatever. So we named him Fezzik after Andre the Giant’s character in The Princess Bride. It turned out to fit him perfectly: big, dumb, and friendly.

He was never a great dog in terms of obedience–though this mostly falls on us as clueless non-trainers–but he was a great companion, at least in terms of always wanting to be next to you or underfoot. He got to be in our yearly family “pumpkin pictures” (well, until baby girl came along). He moved to Oregon with us, and he moved back to Michigan and went to live on my parents’ farm, where we thought he’d be very happy. But he had to be tied up, and he barked a lot, and then he decided he had to protect the place and bit one of my parents’ friends, and my poor dad had to break it to us. They can’t have a dog like that, and who wants to take a twelve-year-old dog that bites? His age was catching up to his health and it wasn’t going to get better. He couldn’t stay there anymore, I told my daughter. He had to go away. He’s gone.

So we remember the good times, like running around on the beach and introducing me to the concept of sneaker wave.

And the funny times, like when our friend Jeff, a known anti-dog person, threw a three-pound stone bocce ball in a long, high arc . . . directly onto innocently wandering Fezz’s bony head. I can hear the thunk! in my mind to this day. Poor dog had no idea what happened–thought the sky was falling.

And the why-do-we-have-pets? times, like when he ate a half a bag of chocolate chips, a half a bag of peanut butter/chocolate chips, and an entire bag of butterscotch chips without showing any signs of sudden death (or remorse). However, he then spent all night wandering around panting like mad, tweaking from all the caffeine, until at 6:30 a.m. he puked the worst thing I have ever seen in my life: a two foot in diameter pile of chocolate with peanut butter swirls which filled the house with a smell that can only be described as burnt Reese’s Pieces mixed with something a CSI found in a dumpster.

Maybe we’ll get a goldfish next.

Farewell my fuzzy Fezzy friend. We know that if dogs go to heaven, you’ll be there licking the carpet when we arrive.