For someone who’d grown up with big dogs it was amazing that it was the small guys that stole my heart.
We had a year old terri/poo, Cocoa, at home and felt he needed company even if I was home all the time. Plus there was a large pair of brown eyes at our local pet shop that had caught me just as Cocoa said “okay, pay Barry and let’s get out of here.” All I knew was that he was an eight-week-old Chihuahua/Yorkie who said “I choose you. Can we go home now?” And we did.
Bogie was so very tiny and our neighbors’ kids volunteered names for him, but I was looking for just the right name. He could basically fit in the palm of my hand and tucked very nicely in my robe’s pocket. Then I realized I had the name: Bogie. No, not the golf term or Humphrey Bogart, but that radar blip that was there yet not there. That was my baby.
Cocoa was mine, but Bogie was my baby. We went through nights of puppy hiccups and tummy aches. Lots of cuddles and walks in the open land we used to have around here. And they both had the distinction of being the only dogs allowed in my friend Susan’s house. Even her own dogs still aren’t allowed in.
Bogie understood that Cocoa had seizures and when Cocoa went to Rainbow Ridge in 1996, Bogie was with us at the vet’s to understand that this time Cocoa wouldn’t be coming home. The same happened in 2003 when our St. Bernard/Lab, Fergie, went to Rainbow Ridge.
I was teased because Bogie felt I was here to carry him around. If we were outside talking to friends and Bogie was with me it wasn’t unusual for him to stand on his hind legs and beg for me to pick him up. That meant he was draped over my shoulder like a baby.
Bogie also had this funny quirk. Whenever he got a treat he hid it. So we’d alway
s find Milkbones and other treats under couch pillows, hidden behind furniture, or pretty much in plain sight. I have to say that quirk taught Fergie how to track since she loved nothing more than hunting down those treats to take for her very own.
Look at Bogie’s Christmas photo. Cute or what? His sweater was knitted for him by a fan that suffered from rheumatoid arthritis. She knitted two sweaters for him and two for Cocoa. This day I remember so well because the photographer asked me to say his name to get his attention because he didn’t look all that happy. I said “Bogie, cookie!” and this is what we got. My handsome guy looking like the happy dog he always was..JPG)
He was the one who slept next to me. Who stayed by the back door when I was gone, waiting for me to go home. He’s always been my little shadow. Sadly, as he got older, he took my absences harder. I was told he’d cry at the door until I got back. And the strange thing about it was many times he didn’t start crying until the time I was heading back home. As if he felt I wasn’t driving fast enough.
But Bogie’s age started catching up with him. Back problems and tender hips meant he couldn’t race up and down the stairs any longer. He could climb them, and insisted on it, but I always carried him downstairs. And if he didn’t think he could make it upstairs, he’ll look at me and I’d know he’d want a ride up. Then he started wandering and I looked into his eyes and knew I was losing him.
I bargained with Fate. His 18th birthday was last Christmas Eve. I wanted that for him and he got it. It would be so easy to bargain that Valentine’s Day was coming, St. Patrick’s Day, but it wouldn’t be fair to him and very selfish of me.
Last July a found dog came into my life and when I later found his owner, he was offered to me. From the first day Barney showed
up in our front yard family and friends told me he was brought into my life to ease the eventual loss of Bogie.
I don’t know if it made it easier. After all, Bogie and I’ve been together for 18 years, but I do know there’s someone to hug and love and who hugs and loves me back.
Bogie had so much heart. He was a tough little guy and he will never be forgotten. I held him in my arms while he went to sleep for the last time.
Good-bye my baby. Mama will miss you so very very much.
We had a year old terri/poo, Cocoa, at home and felt he needed company even if I was home all the time. Plus there was a large pair of brown eyes at our local pet shop that had caught me just as Cocoa said “okay, pay Barry and let’s get out of here.” All I knew was that he was an eight-week-old Chihuahua/Yorkie who said “I choose you. Can we go home now?” And we did.
Bogie was so very tiny and our neighbors’ kids volunteered names for him, but I was looking for just the right name. He could basically fit in the palm of my hand and tucked very nicely in my robe’s pocket. Then I realized I had the name: Bogie. No, not the golf term or Humphrey Bogart, but that radar blip that was there yet not there. That was my baby.
Cocoa was mine, but Bogie was my baby. We went through nights of puppy hiccups and tummy aches. Lots of cuddles and walks in the open land we used to have around here. And they both had the distinction of being the only dogs allowed in my friend Susan’s house. Even her own dogs still aren’t allowed in.
Bogie understood that Cocoa had seizures and when Cocoa went to Rainbow Ridge in 1996, Bogie was with us at the vet’s to understand that this time Cocoa wouldn’t be coming home. The same happened in 2003 when our St. Bernard/Lab, Fergie, went to Rainbow Ridge.
I was teased because Bogie felt I was here to carry him around. If we were outside talking to friends and Bogie was with me it wasn’t unusual for him to stand on his hind legs and beg for me to pick him up. That meant he was draped over my shoulder like a baby.
Bogie also had this funny quirk. Whenever he got a treat he hid it. So we’d alway
s find Milkbones and other treats under couch pillows, hidden behind furniture, or pretty much in plain sight. I have to say that quirk taught Fergie how to track since she loved nothing more than hunting down those treats to take for her very own.Look at Bogie’s Christmas photo. Cute or what? His sweater was knitted for him by a fan that suffered from rheumatoid arthritis. She knitted two sweaters for him and two for Cocoa. This day I remember so well because the photographer asked me to say his name to get his attention because he didn’t look all that happy. I said “Bogie, cookie!” and this is what we got. My handsome guy looking like the happy dog he always was.
.JPG)
He was the one who slept next to me. Who stayed by the back door when I was gone, waiting for me to go home. He’s always been my little shadow. Sadly, as he got older, he took my absences harder. I was told he’d cry at the door until I got back. And the strange thing about it was many times he didn’t start crying until the time I was heading back home. As if he felt I wasn’t driving fast enough.
But Bogie’s age started catching up with him. Back problems and tender hips meant he couldn’t race up and down the stairs any longer. He could climb them, and insisted on it, but I always carried him downstairs. And if he didn’t think he could make it upstairs, he’ll look at me and I’d know he’d want a ride up. Then he started wandering and I looked into his eyes and knew I was losing him.
I bargained with Fate. His 18th birthday was last Christmas Eve. I wanted that for him and he got it. It would be so easy to bargain that Valentine’s Day was coming, St. Patrick’s Day, but it wouldn’t be fair to him and very selfish of me.
Last July a found dog came into my life and when I later found his owner, he was offered to me. From the first day Barney showed
up in our front yard family and friends told me he was brought into my life to ease the eventual loss of Bogie.I don’t know if it made it easier. After all, Bogie and I’ve been together for 18 years, but I do know there’s someone to hug and love and who hugs and loves me back.
Bogie had so much heart. He was a tough little guy and he will never be forgotten. I held him in my arms while he went to sleep for the last time.
Good-bye my baby. Mama will miss you so very very much.
