Pfeffer was the only puppy left out of a litter of Miniature Schnauzers. The owner/breeder had named him Bruiser because he was huge for a Mini Schnauzer puppy. He told me I would never be able to show him because of his size. I told him I had absolutely no interest in entering him in dog shows...I just wanted a Mini Schnauzer. There's nothing cuter than a Mini Schnauzer puppy. Their beards look like dandelions.
When I brought him home that day, the first thing that happened was our Dobie, Schatzi, was so exuberant over meeting the new puppy that she stepped on his toes and broke them. Poor Pfeffer cried and cried. We rushed him to the vet, and Pfeffer spent the first few weeks in his new home with an Ace bandage wrapped around his leg and foot. He had trouble walking with the bandage on...at least walking forward. It was during these formative weeks that he mastered the art of walking backwards. For the rest of his life, he delighted in walking backwards at every opportunity.
My mother was notorious for not especially liking dogs. During my childhood we had several dogs (because I would throw fits if I didn't have a dog) and she could barely stand touching them. When she did pet them, she'd lean way over so her arm wouldn't touch their noses by accident. Well, she fell in love with Pfeffer from the moment she met him. Dogs were not allowed in her senior living community, but she encouraged me to bring him over each time I visited. I'd sneak him in the back door, hoping that nobody spotted us.
My Mom had a key to my apartment, in case of emergency. I'd come home from work some days to find a note: "I took Pfeffer for a walk. The chicken I left in the fridge is for him." She was simply goo goo over this little dog. I don't know exactly what it was about THIS particular dog that got to her, but it sure did my heart good that she loved him so much.
Pfeffer was not the easiest dog to please when it came to food. I tried canned food, but he was a bit fastidious about dunking his beard in his food bowl. Then I tried putting his food onto a flat dish, but that didn't really solve the problem, either. I tried dry kibble, but that didn't suit his taste. Next was dry kibble mixed with a little wet food for additional flavor, but then we were back to his fussiness about getting his beard wet. So I trimmed his beard, but he didn't perceive that his beard was any shorter, so the problem continued. One day—and I'll never know what made me try this—I put a bit of wet food on a fork and held it out to him. He sniffed this tidbit and after a moment opened his mouth and took the food perfectly from the fork. After a few bites, he had it down to a science. He learned how to scrape his teeth along the tines of the fork to get every morsel.
I regretted having hit on this idea as a means of feeding my dog, as it was extremely time-consuming, but fortunately, I didn't have to feed him this way all the time. Apparently he overcame whatever sensibilities he'd had originally about putting his nose in a bowl, because after a while he went back to the traditional way of eating. Only occasionally, when he was off his feed for some mysterious reason, would I have to resort to fork-feeding him. It usually took only a bite or two using the fork to get him started, and then he would continue on his own, eating from his bowl. After observing this unorthodox method of fork-feeding one evening, my mother remarked, "What a strange little dog."
Pfeffer had two companion cats, and even though the cats didn't especially get along (mostly they ignored each other), they both adored Pfeffer, and the feeling was mutual. They'd all stretch out in front of the heater, one cat on each side of him, and the cats would groom the daylights out of his eyebrows and beard. He'd look up at me during these grooming sessions, and his eyebrows would be plastered to his forehead. It totally cracked me up. After a while, his eyebrows would dry and get fluffy again.
It was Pfeffer's job to keep the cats in line, a duty he took very seriously. If one of the cats was about to get into some trouble, I would holler the offending cat's name, and that was Pfeffer's cue to investigate and bump the cat with his nose to distract it from its current mischief. He was pretty officious about it, too, walking away with a self-satisfied air, checking me out of the corner of his eye to be sure I had observed how on top of things he was. Depending on the cat crime, sometimes Pfeffer wasn't so gentle; he tackled the rear end of the cat, wrapping his front paws around the cat's belly and use his chest to send the cat's hindquarters to the ground. A brief struggle would ensue, with the cat wailing and hissing, but five minutes later I would find them cuddled together again, fast asleep.
When Pfeffer was still a little puppy, a friend of mine came over for a visit one day, and as we were standing in the middle of the living room saying our goodbyes, my friend felt a presence at his feet. He looked down and exclaimed, "Oh, look! A tiny buffalo!"
Almost 14 years pass and Pfeffer is an exceptional little dog...smart, cute, somewhat friendly, and the best companion one could ask for. He had some trouble with bladder stones in his later years, and I gave my approval for the surgery to remove them. After the surgery, his whole midsection was wrapped in a tight bandage. When I brought him home from the vet, I carried him to the backyard so he could do his business. He just stood there, stiff and still, and refused to move. I picked him up and brought him back into the house. I called the vet and announced, "Pfeffer thinks he's paralyzed." The vet laughed and said I could remove the bandage. I did, and Pfeffer happily went right outside. What a character.
He was diagnosed with cancer right before Thanksgiving 1996. He was so miserable and sick that we decided to let him go the day after Thanksgiving. On Thanksgiving day, we were all miserable, knowing what the next day had in store. I'm crying and cooking a turkey with all the trimmings and just inconsolable. Pfeffer is on the couch in the living room, and I keep going over to him to kiss and pet him, starting the horrible process of saying goodbye. Suddenly he jumped off the couch and came into the kitchen with his nose in the air, sniffing, sniffing, trying to locate the source of the aromas from the kitchen. I gave him a doggie treat, which he gobbled down (he hadn't been eating well for a few days). As we carved the turkey, he begged for some of that, which he also gobbled down. My Pfeffer was back! He had rallied completely and was his old self again. I called the vet the next morning to cancel the euthanasia appointment. I told him what had happened the previous day, and he was as happy as I was. He said Pfeffer had obviously gone into remission and to make the most of it.
Pfeffer lasted another 18 months! I was thankful for each and every miracle day I had with him. It was only a temporary reprieve, I knew, but I was going to make the most of it. He was pampered and loved every day of his life, and the past 18 months were such a gift.
On May 8, 1998, I came home from work and looked for him right away, as I always did. I found him on the back porch, under a table, as if he were hiding. I said to myself, "This is it. Pfeffer is telling me it's time." I called the vet and he said to bring Pfeffer in at 8:00 that evening. I put Pfeffer on the couch and cuddled and kissed him until it was time to leave for the vet. I put him on the examining table, and the vet started probing Pfeffer's vein to give him the injection. He did this for a few seconds and then said, "I need to go get a smaller needle. I'll be right back." While the vet was out of the room, Pfeffer died in my arms, without any injection at all. I was devastated, but I also knew that Pfeffer had chosen his own time and was at peace on his own terms.
He was special in so many ways, and I'll miss him forever. I will always be grateful that I was hugging and kissing him when he took his last little breath. I know that he knows how much he was loved.
"I Only Wanted You" -- Author Unknown
They say memories are golden
well maybe that is true.
I never wanted memories,
I only wanted you.
A million times I needed you,
a million times I cried.
If love alone could have saved you,
you never would have died.
In life I loved you dearly,
In death I love you still.
In my heart you hold a place
no one could ever fill.
If tears could build a stairway
and heartache make a lane,
I'd walk the path to heaven
and bring you back again.
Our family chain is broken,
and nothing seems the same.
But as God calls us one by one,
the chain will link again.
When I brought him home that day, the first thing that happened was our Dobie, Schatzi, was so exuberant over meeting the new puppy that she stepped on his toes and broke them. Poor Pfeffer cried and cried. We rushed him to the vet, and Pfeffer spent the first few weeks in his new home with an Ace bandage wrapped around his leg and foot. He had trouble walking with the bandage on...at least walking forward. It was during these formative weeks that he mastered the art of walking backwards. For the rest of his life, he delighted in walking backwards at every opportunity.
My mother was notorious for not especially liking dogs. During my childhood we had several dogs (because I would throw fits if I didn't have a dog) and she could barely stand touching them. When she did pet them, she'd lean way over so her arm wouldn't touch their noses by accident. Well, she fell in love with Pfeffer from the moment she met him. Dogs were not allowed in her senior living community, but she encouraged me to bring him over each time I visited. I'd sneak him in the back door, hoping that nobody spotted us.
My Mom had a key to my apartment, in case of emergency. I'd come home from work some days to find a note: "I took Pfeffer for a walk. The chicken I left in the fridge is for him." She was simply goo goo over this little dog. I don't know exactly what it was about THIS particular dog that got to her, but it sure did my heart good that she loved him so much.
Pfeffer was not the easiest dog to please when it came to food. I tried canned food, but he was a bit fastidious about dunking his beard in his food bowl. Then I tried putting his food onto a flat dish, but that didn't really solve the problem, either. I tried dry kibble, but that didn't suit his taste. Next was dry kibble mixed with a little wet food for additional flavor, but then we were back to his fussiness about getting his beard wet. So I trimmed his beard, but he didn't perceive that his beard was any shorter, so the problem continued. One day—and I'll never know what made me try this—I put a bit of wet food on a fork and held it out to him. He sniffed this tidbit and after a moment opened his mouth and took the food perfectly from the fork. After a few bites, he had it down to a science. He learned how to scrape his teeth along the tines of the fork to get every morsel.
I regretted having hit on this idea as a means of feeding my dog, as it was extremely time-consuming, but fortunately, I didn't have to feed him this way all the time. Apparently he overcame whatever sensibilities he'd had originally about putting his nose in a bowl, because after a while he went back to the traditional way of eating. Only occasionally, when he was off his feed for some mysterious reason, would I have to resort to fork-feeding him. It usually took only a bite or two using the fork to get him started, and then he would continue on his own, eating from his bowl. After observing this unorthodox method of fork-feeding one evening, my mother remarked, "What a strange little dog."
Pfeffer had two companion cats, and even though the cats didn't especially get along (mostly they ignored each other), they both adored Pfeffer, and the feeling was mutual. They'd all stretch out in front of the heater, one cat on each side of him, and the cats would groom the daylights out of his eyebrows and beard. He'd look up at me during these grooming sessions, and his eyebrows would be plastered to his forehead. It totally cracked me up. After a while, his eyebrows would dry and get fluffy again.
It was Pfeffer's job to keep the cats in line, a duty he took very seriously. If one of the cats was about to get into some trouble, I would holler the offending cat's name, and that was Pfeffer's cue to investigate and bump the cat with his nose to distract it from its current mischief. He was pretty officious about it, too, walking away with a self-satisfied air, checking me out of the corner of his eye to be sure I had observed how on top of things he was. Depending on the cat crime, sometimes Pfeffer wasn't so gentle; he tackled the rear end of the cat, wrapping his front paws around the cat's belly and use his chest to send the cat's hindquarters to the ground. A brief struggle would ensue, with the cat wailing and hissing, but five minutes later I would find them cuddled together again, fast asleep.
When Pfeffer was still a little puppy, a friend of mine came over for a visit one day, and as we were standing in the middle of the living room saying our goodbyes, my friend felt a presence at his feet. He looked down and exclaimed, "Oh, look! A tiny buffalo!"
Almost 14 years pass and Pfeffer is an exceptional little dog...smart, cute, somewhat friendly, and the best companion one could ask for. He had some trouble with bladder stones in his later years, and I gave my approval for the surgery to remove them. After the surgery, his whole midsection was wrapped in a tight bandage. When I brought him home from the vet, I carried him to the backyard so he could do his business. He just stood there, stiff and still, and refused to move. I picked him up and brought him back into the house. I called the vet and announced, "Pfeffer thinks he's paralyzed." The vet laughed and said I could remove the bandage. I did, and Pfeffer happily went right outside. What a character.
He was diagnosed with cancer right before Thanksgiving 1996. He was so miserable and sick that we decided to let him go the day after Thanksgiving. On Thanksgiving day, we were all miserable, knowing what the next day had in store. I'm crying and cooking a turkey with all the trimmings and just inconsolable. Pfeffer is on the couch in the living room, and I keep going over to him to kiss and pet him, starting the horrible process of saying goodbye. Suddenly he jumped off the couch and came into the kitchen with his nose in the air, sniffing, sniffing, trying to locate the source of the aromas from the kitchen. I gave him a doggie treat, which he gobbled down (he hadn't been eating well for a few days). As we carved the turkey, he begged for some of that, which he also gobbled down. My Pfeffer was back! He had rallied completely and was his old self again. I called the vet the next morning to cancel the euthanasia appointment. I told him what had happened the previous day, and he was as happy as I was. He said Pfeffer had obviously gone into remission and to make the most of it.
Pfeffer lasted another 18 months! I was thankful for each and every miracle day I had with him. It was only a temporary reprieve, I knew, but I was going to make the most of it. He was pampered and loved every day of his life, and the past 18 months were such a gift.
On May 8, 1998, I came home from work and looked for him right away, as I always did. I found him on the back porch, under a table, as if he were hiding. I said to myself, "This is it. Pfeffer is telling me it's time." I called the vet and he said to bring Pfeffer in at 8:00 that evening. I put Pfeffer on the couch and cuddled and kissed him until it was time to leave for the vet. I put him on the examining table, and the vet started probing Pfeffer's vein to give him the injection. He did this for a few seconds and then said, "I need to go get a smaller needle. I'll be right back." While the vet was out of the room, Pfeffer died in my arms, without any injection at all. I was devastated, but I also knew that Pfeffer had chosen his own time and was at peace on his own terms.
He was special in so many ways, and I'll miss him forever. I will always be grateful that I was hugging and kissing him when he took his last little breath. I know that he knows how much he was loved.
"I Only Wanted You" -- Author Unknown
They say memories are golden
well maybe that is true.
I never wanted memories,
I only wanted you.
A million times I needed you,
a million times I cried.
If love alone could have saved you,
you never would have died.
In life I loved you dearly,
In death I love you still.
In my heart you hold a place
no one could ever fill.
If tears could build a stairway
and heartache make a lane,
I'd walk the path to heaven
and bring you back again.
Our family chain is broken,
and nothing seems the same.
But as God calls us one by one,
the chain will link again.
Pfeffer was the only puppy left out of a litter of Miniature Schnauzers. The owner/breeder had named him Bruiser because he was huge for a Mini Schnauzer puppy. He told me I would never be able to show him because of his size. I told him I had absolutely no interest in entering him in dog shows...I just wanted a Mini Schnauzer. There's nothing cuter than a Mini Schnauzer puppy. Their beards look like dandelions.
When I brought him home that day, the first thing that happened was our Dobie, Schatzi, was so exuberant over meeting the new puppy that she stepped on his toes and broke them. Poor Pfeffer cried and cried. We rushed him to the vet, and Pfeffer spent the first few weeks in his new home with an Ace bandage wrapped around his leg and foot. He had trouble walking with the bandage on...at least walking forward. It was during these formative weeks that he mastered the art of walking backwards. For the rest of his life, he delighted in walking backwards at every opportunity.
My mother was notorious for not especially liking dogs. During my childhood we had several dogs (because I would throw fits if I didn't have a dog) and she could barely stand touching them. When she did pet them, she'd lean way over so her arm wouldn't touch their noses by accident. Well, she fell in love with Pfeffer from the moment she met him. Dogs were not allowed in her senior living community, but she encouraged me to bring him over each time I visited. I'd sneak him in the back door, hoping that nobody spotted us.
My Mom had a key to my apartment, in case of emergency. I'd come home from work some days to find a note: "I took Pfeffer for a walk. The chicken I left in the fridge is for him." She was simply goo goo over this little dog. I don't know exactly what it was about THIS particular dog that got to her, but it sure did my heart good that she loved him so much.
Pfeffer was not the easiest dog to please when it came to food. I tried canned food, but he was a bit fastidious about dunking his beard in his food bowl. Then I tried putting his food onto a flat dish, but that didn't really solve the problem, either. I tried dry kibble, but that didn't suit his taste. Next was dry kibble mixed with a little wet food for additional flavor, but then we were back to his fussiness about getting his beard wet. So I trimmed his beard, but he didn't perceive that his beard was any shorter, so the problem continued. One day—and I'll never know what made me try this—I put a bit of wet food on a fork and held it out to him. He sniffed this tidbit and after a moment opened his mouth and took the food perfectly from the fork. After a few bites, he had it down to a science. He learned how to scrape his teeth along the tines of the fork to get every morsel.
I regretted having hit on this idea as a means of feeding my dog, as it was extremely time-consuming, but fortunately, I didn't have to feed him this way all the time. Apparently he overcame whatever sensibilities he'd had originally about putting his nose in a bowl, because after a while he went back to the traditional way of eating. Only occasionally, when he was off his feed for some mysterious reason, would I have to resort to fork-feeding him. It usually took only a bite or two using the fork to get him started, and then he would continue on his own, eating from his bowl. After observing this unorthodox method of fork-feeding one evening, my mother remarked, "What a strange little dog."
Pfeffer had two companion cats, and even though the cats didn't especially get along (mostly they ignored each other), they both adored Pfeffer, and the feeling was mutual. They'd all stretch out in front of the heater, one cat on each side of him, and the cats would groom the daylights out of his eyebrows and beard. He'd look up at me during these grooming sessions, and his eyebrows would be plastered to his forehead. It totally cracked me up. After a while, his eyebrows would dry and get fluffy again.
It was Pfeffer's job to keep the cats in line, a duty he took very seriously. If one of the cats was about to get into some trouble, I would holler the offending cat's name, and that was Pfeffer's cue to investigate and bump the cat with his nose to distract it from its current mischief. He was pretty officious about it, too, walking away with a self-satisfied air, checking me out of the corner of his eye to be sure I had observed how on top of things he was. Depending on the cat crime, sometimes Pfeffer wasn't so gentle; he tackled the rear end of the cat, wrapping his front paws around the cat's belly and use his chest to send the cat's hindquarters to the ground. A brief struggle would ensue, with the cat wailing and hissing, but five minutes later I would find them cuddled together again, fast asleep.
When Pfeffer was still a little puppy, a friend of mine came over for a visit one day, and as we were standing in the middle of the living room saying our goodbyes, my friend felt a presence at his feet. He looked down and exclaimed, "Oh, look! A tiny buffalo!"
Almost 14 years pass and Pfeffer is an exceptional little dog...smart, cute, somewhat friendly, and the best companion one could ask for. He had some trouble with bladder stones in his later years, and I gave my approval for the surgery to remove them. After the surgery, his whole midsection was wrapped in a tight bandage. When I brought him home from the vet, I carried him to the backyard so he could do his business. He just stood there, stiff and still, and refused to move. I picked him up and brought him back into the house. I called the vet and announced, "Pfeffer thinks he's paralyzed." The vet laughed and said I could remove the bandage. I did, and Pfeffer happily went right outside. What a character.
He was diagnosed with cancer right before Thanksgiving 1996. He was so miserable and sick that we decided to let him go the day after Thanksgiving. On Thanksgiving day, we were all miserable, knowing what the next day had in store. I'm crying and cooking a turkey with all the trimmings and just inconsolable. Pfeffer is on the couch in the living room, and I keep going over to him to kiss and pet him, starting the horrible process of saying goodbye. Suddenly he jumped off the couch and came into the kitchen with his nose in the air, sniffing, sniffing, trying to locate the source of the aromas from the kitchen. I gave him a doggie treat, which he gobbled down (he hadn't been eating well for a few days). As we carved the turkey, he begged for some of that, which he also gobbled down. My Pfeffer was back! He had rallied completely and was his old self again. I called the vet the next morning to cancel the euthanasia appointment. I told him what had happened the previous day, and he was as happy as I was. He said Pfeffer had obviously gone into remission and to make the most of it.
Pfeffer lasted another 18 months! I was thankful for each and every miracle day I had with him. It was only a temporary reprieve, I knew, but I was going to make the most of it. He was pampered and loved every day of his life, and the past 18 months were such a gift.
On May 8, 1998, I came home from work and looked for him right away, as I always did. I found him on the back porch, under a table, as if he were hiding. I said to myself, "This is it. Pfeffer is telling me it's time." I called the vet and he said to bring Pfeffer in at 8:00 that evening. I put Pfeffer on the couch and cuddled and kissed him until it was time to leave for the vet. I put him on the examining table, and the vet started probing Pfeffer's vein to give him the injection. He did this for a few seconds and then said, "I need to go get a smaller needle. I'll be right back." While the vet was out of the room, Pfeffer died in my arms, without any injection at all. I was devastated, but I also knew that Pfeffer had chosen his own time and was at peace on his own terms.
He was special in so many ways, and I'll miss him forever. I will always be grateful that I was hugging and kissing him when he took his last little breath. I know that he knows how much he was loved.
"I Only Wanted You" -- Author Unknown
They say memories are golden
well maybe that is true.
I never wanted memories,
I only wanted you.
A million times I needed you,
a million times I cried.
If love alone could have saved you,
you never would have died.
In life I loved you dearly,
In death I love you still.
In my heart you hold a place
no one could ever fill.
If tears could build a stairway
and heartache make a lane,
I'd walk the path to heaven
and bring you back again.
Our family chain is broken,
and nothing seems the same.
But as God calls us one by one,
the chain will link again.
When I brought him home that day, the first thing that happened was our Dobie, Schatzi, was so exuberant over meeting the new puppy that she stepped on his toes and broke them. Poor Pfeffer cried and cried. We rushed him to the vet, and Pfeffer spent the first few weeks in his new home with an Ace bandage wrapped around his leg and foot. He had trouble walking with the bandage on...at least walking forward. It was during these formative weeks that he mastered the art of walking backwards. For the rest of his life, he delighted in walking backwards at every opportunity.
My mother was notorious for not especially liking dogs. During my childhood we had several dogs (because I would throw fits if I didn't have a dog) and she could barely stand touching them. When she did pet them, she'd lean way over so her arm wouldn't touch their noses by accident. Well, she fell in love with Pfeffer from the moment she met him. Dogs were not allowed in her senior living community, but she encouraged me to bring him over each time I visited. I'd sneak him in the back door, hoping that nobody spotted us.
My Mom had a key to my apartment, in case of emergency. I'd come home from work some days to find a note: "I took Pfeffer for a walk. The chicken I left in the fridge is for him." She was simply goo goo over this little dog. I don't know exactly what it was about THIS particular dog that got to her, but it sure did my heart good that she loved him so much.
Pfeffer was not the easiest dog to please when it came to food. I tried canned food, but he was a bit fastidious about dunking his beard in his food bowl. Then I tried putting his food onto a flat dish, but that didn't really solve the problem, either. I tried dry kibble, but that didn't suit his taste. Next was dry kibble mixed with a little wet food for additional flavor, but then we were back to his fussiness about getting his beard wet. So I trimmed his beard, but he didn't perceive that his beard was any shorter, so the problem continued. One day—and I'll never know what made me try this—I put a bit of wet food on a fork and held it out to him. He sniffed this tidbit and after a moment opened his mouth and took the food perfectly from the fork. After a few bites, he had it down to a science. He learned how to scrape his teeth along the tines of the fork to get every morsel.
I regretted having hit on this idea as a means of feeding my dog, as it was extremely time-consuming, but fortunately, I didn't have to feed him this way all the time. Apparently he overcame whatever sensibilities he'd had originally about putting his nose in a bowl, because after a while he went back to the traditional way of eating. Only occasionally, when he was off his feed for some mysterious reason, would I have to resort to fork-feeding him. It usually took only a bite or two using the fork to get him started, and then he would continue on his own, eating from his bowl. After observing this unorthodox method of fork-feeding one evening, my mother remarked, "What a strange little dog."
Pfeffer had two companion cats, and even though the cats didn't especially get along (mostly they ignored each other), they both adored Pfeffer, and the feeling was mutual. They'd all stretch out in front of the heater, one cat on each side of him, and the cats would groom the daylights out of his eyebrows and beard. He'd look up at me during these grooming sessions, and his eyebrows would be plastered to his forehead. It totally cracked me up. After a while, his eyebrows would dry and get fluffy again.
It was Pfeffer's job to keep the cats in line, a duty he took very seriously. If one of the cats was about to get into some trouble, I would holler the offending cat's name, and that was Pfeffer's cue to investigate and bump the cat with his nose to distract it from its current mischief. He was pretty officious about it, too, walking away with a self-satisfied air, checking me out of the corner of his eye to be sure I had observed how on top of things he was. Depending on the cat crime, sometimes Pfeffer wasn't so gentle; he tackled the rear end of the cat, wrapping his front paws around the cat's belly and use his chest to send the cat's hindquarters to the ground. A brief struggle would ensue, with the cat wailing and hissing, but five minutes later I would find them cuddled together again, fast asleep.
When Pfeffer was still a little puppy, a friend of mine came over for a visit one day, and as we were standing in the middle of the living room saying our goodbyes, my friend felt a presence at his feet. He looked down and exclaimed, "Oh, look! A tiny buffalo!"
Almost 14 years pass and Pfeffer is an exceptional little dog...smart, cute, somewhat friendly, and the best companion one could ask for. He had some trouble with bladder stones in his later years, and I gave my approval for the surgery to remove them. After the surgery, his whole midsection was wrapped in a tight bandage. When I brought him home from the vet, I carried him to the backyard so he could do his business. He just stood there, stiff and still, and refused to move. I picked him up and brought him back into the house. I called the vet and announced, "Pfeffer thinks he's paralyzed." The vet laughed and said I could remove the bandage. I did, and Pfeffer happily went right outside. What a character.
He was diagnosed with cancer right before Thanksgiving 1996. He was so miserable and sick that we decided to let him go the day after Thanksgiving. On Thanksgiving day, we were all miserable, knowing what the next day had in store. I'm crying and cooking a turkey with all the trimmings and just inconsolable. Pfeffer is on the couch in the living room, and I keep going over to him to kiss and pet him, starting the horrible process of saying goodbye. Suddenly he jumped off the couch and came into the kitchen with his nose in the air, sniffing, sniffing, trying to locate the source of the aromas from the kitchen. I gave him a doggie treat, which he gobbled down (he hadn't been eating well for a few days). As we carved the turkey, he begged for some of that, which he also gobbled down. My Pfeffer was back! He had rallied completely and was his old self again. I called the vet the next morning to cancel the euthanasia appointment. I told him what had happened the previous day, and he was as happy as I was. He said Pfeffer had obviously gone into remission and to make the most of it.
Pfeffer lasted another 18 months! I was thankful for each and every miracle day I had with him. It was only a temporary reprieve, I knew, but I was going to make the most of it. He was pampered and loved every day of his life, and the past 18 months were such a gift.
On May 8, 1998, I came home from work and looked for him right away, as I always did. I found him on the back porch, under a table, as if he were hiding. I said to myself, "This is it. Pfeffer is telling me it's time." I called the vet and he said to bring Pfeffer in at 8:00 that evening. I put Pfeffer on the couch and cuddled and kissed him until it was time to leave for the vet. I put him on the examining table, and the vet started probing Pfeffer's vein to give him the injection. He did this for a few seconds and then said, "I need to go get a smaller needle. I'll be right back." While the vet was out of the room, Pfeffer died in my arms, without any injection at all. I was devastated, but I also knew that Pfeffer had chosen his own time and was at peace on his own terms.
He was special in so many ways, and I'll miss him forever. I will always be grateful that I was hugging and kissing him when he took his last little breath. I know that he knows how much he was loved.
"I Only Wanted You" -- Author Unknown
They say memories are golden
well maybe that is true.
I never wanted memories,
I only wanted you.
A million times I needed you,
a million times I cried.
If love alone could have saved you,
you never would have died.
In life I loved you dearly,
In death I love you still.
In my heart you hold a place
no one could ever fill.
If tears could build a stairway
and heartache make a lane,
I'd walk the path to heaven
and bring you back again.
Our family chain is broken,
and nothing seems the same.
But as God calls us one by one,
the chain will link again.
