We lost Bandit this week. He was 18 years old, which is like 1,000 in dog years.
He'd pretty much been fading before our eyes, which is why I used the fuzzy setting in Instagram to take his picture. In the past few months, he seemed to be in soft focus all the time.
His ailments became numerous.
He lost weight.
He stared into space a lot, but didn't appear to be in pain. Just confused. Maybe waiting.
We knew that we were getting closer to his final day, but we didn't think it would come when we were in Savannah to celebrate my mother-in-law Betty's 90 years on this earth.
The good news is our girls were with us because of their grandmother's memorial service. Had we been in Naperville, not all of us would have been together to rush poor Bandit to the vet (thank you, Dr. Gall at Chatham Animal Hospital) or rub his ears 24 hours later and kiss him good bye.
This was taken two months ago on the island where my mother-in-law lived for 20 years.
Bandit was pretty keen to sniff out the what's what of the Landings Harbor Marina with its marsh grasses and ocean and wildlife. I suspect a dog's nose can appreciate a view like this in ways we will never know.
So, while we are sad, we'd like to think that he is in a place where there is no thunder to scare him. Pepperoni pizza is always on the menu. Playing keep away from the humans is not frowned upon. And there is always an accommodating lap.