You fought a good fight, Mr. Man, and in the end I'm sorry I wasn't home to tell you it was okay to go. You were a friend and a companion to me, and to my beloved husband, in some very dark times. Like the Native American legends of Coyote, you were also a jester, often a klutz, and occasionally too dumb to be believed (like all those times you fell into the bathwater with me because you slipped on my washcloth). You drove me crazy by shitting in the bathtub whenever my parents or my in-laws came over, your unerring ability to search and destroy freshly clean laundry (pictured here refusing to give Asia her sweatshirt back), and let's not even mention that time you looked squarely at us to make sure we were watching, and then peed into my new leather briefcase, all over my journal.
In the last month, you'd made it pretty clear that the end of our time together was approaching. You did this in various ways, not limited to chronic constipation, refusal of all food except liverwurst and cooked bacon, severe dehydration requiring daily fluid replacement, utter incontinence, inability to jump onto furniture or ultimately even climb stairs, and a seizure brought on by low blood sugar. Still, each time I brought you to the vet for what I thought was a date with euthanasia, you perked up and pulled another life out of your furry bag of tricks--Coyote strikes again. This morning, you reached in and found that bag finally empty.
You will be sorely missed, little dude. Thanks for taking care of us all these years. I can only hope we returned the favour when it was most needed.