R.I.P. Cotton (1999 – September 6, 2014)

How do I even begin to say goodbye to you, my sweet, odd, lovable friend?

I know 15 human years for a dog is a long time, but it feels like yesterday I brought you home.

The last eulogy I wrote for a human, my favorite aunt, I mixed in lots of serious moments with humor. It’s what I do. It’s how I cope.

But there will be no funeral or memorial service.

No headstone to mark your grave.

No urn with your ashes.

Just an empty food bowl. A leash. A collar with a tag that has your name and my phone number: “Cotton.”

That’s because you used to run away. A lot. Every chance you got for the entire first year after I brought you home from the shelter. I tried chasing you the first dozen times, sometimes on foot, sometimes in the car. I finally gave up, bought the tag and waited for the inevitable phone call that someone had found you blocks away.

Your name was Sydney then, but it didn’t fit a white, fluffy American Eskimo.

Several people, the elderly woman next door included, called you Snowball. You tolerated the faux pas with your usual coolness.

One of my dear friends said he imagined you with a crisp British voice. That makes sense. Until the last few months of your life, you were prim, proper, stand-offish.

When we visited the dog park, you never played with the other dogs. You walked around to humor me, but you honestly preferred your own backyard or a walk around the neighborhood.

You’ve been with me since my divorce after 20 years of marriage when I bought my first house – well, the first one I’d ever bought all on my own.

Every night since then, you’ve camped out on the floor at the foot of my bed, snoring, farting, keeping me company. Filling in, if you will. so I never felt lonely.

I grew accustomed to your idiosyncrasies: your fear of hair brushes, cameras, brooms, stairs, being picked up or petted without warning.

Your brand of fetch meant I threw the ball, you chased it and I went to where you were to retrieve it. I worked for years to get you to bring it to me. You won. Good for you.

Your affinity for food prompted the purchase of an automated feeder that dispensed just the right amount twice a day.  You paced around 15 minutes before each time the food dropped. You valued, like me, punctuality.  I liked the fact that you lost the two extra chins you had acquired when I free fed you.

I loved that you barked when the doorbell rang, though you were not a barker in general. As you aged and lost your hearing, the clanging of your tag on the water bowl sent you running to the door, barking furiously.

When you forgot how to use the dog door I installed for you to roam the backyard at will when I worked late nights at the newspaper,  I knew something wasn’t right.

When you stopped wanting to go on walks, your favorite thing in the world, I really knew. A visit to the vet confirmed it. You were losing your sight. Your arthritis made walks more of a chore than a treat. And your blood work indicated cancer.

“It’s really just a question of making him comfortable,” she said.

We returned home with a bottle of pain medication to help ease your last days.

When my phone rang the other morning and a strange caller asked if I had a white dog named Cotton, I ached. I knew you were back in that place we had been more than a decade ago. You no longer felt safe, secure or even certain where you belonged. You had run away.

A week later when you fell down the stairs and looked up at me with terror and confusion as you paced the basement, my heart simply broke. You hated those stairs. I knew you would never have turned that way intentionally.

I’m sorry old friend if your last days robbed you of some dignity. In my eyes you are still that sweet, eccentric, fluff ball of a dog I brought home years ago to make my life more complete. You did, and I’ll be forever grateful.

I hope yours was good as well.

You certainly deserved it.