In loving memory of an old friend: Scooby and I were together for nearly a third of my life. He made it to 119 people years, lasting longer than either of my marriages for what that’s worth.
He was a pain in the ass. He never stopped barking and never fully shut the hell up until he finally lost his voice. He considered the rules regarding only going to the bathroom OUTSIDE to be purely suggestions and not applicable to him.
He never stopped humping female dogs (fixed or otherwise), even though he was fixed at the tender age of 2, until the day he died.
He was a trash hound, and he always smelled like he had just taken a bath in a steaming hot fresh pile of horseshit.
He was always happy and full of life and fearless and resilient… and he was never sick.
He was run over by a car, trampled by horses, and damn near killed (more than once) by the very same pack of English Mastiffs that were his brothers and sisters. His crime? Stealing their bones when they weren’t watching. And, as fate would have it, he has outlived all of them.
He was loved. He was respected. He was admired. Scooby and I were together through some of the best and worst times in our collective and respective lives.
He will be missed.