And so it was last Thursday, after 13 years and 6 weeks, after 2 weeks of growing struggle, we let Jazz cross Rainbow Bridge. I took the day off, and it wasn't til near noon when we knew the time to be at our vet, not until evening.
I worked on a newsletter article, submitted a mileage report, petted and hugged this big, loveable puppy who had an irrepressible spirit and whose body could not keep pace with his spirit. But even last week, his spirit wasn't what it had been.
That greyhound was always underfoot. Wherever we were, he was. He even still managed to come up the stairs until Tues night and sleep at the foot of our bed. And he did have an accident many times before he came up.
That greyhound never had a lick of sense! Stayed out too long when it was cold and then his paws would be pretty cold and he'd lift them funny.
That greyhound was always in the way. In-the-way-Jazz, I called him. By the sink, when I was prepping dinner and needed to be there, by the stove when I was trying to cook and standing in
front of the fridge when I needed to open the fridge door.
That greyhound could exasperate me, but then he looked at me with those big brown eyes, and
I couldn't be mad anymore.
That greyhound was most always in a good mood. He was happy and content just to be, but mostly so, when we were home.
That greyhound was a sturdy fellow, mastered the rhythm of going up and down a fairly steep
flight of stairs. He was bony and bow-legged, not much to look at, but a good spirit with a good heart.
That greyhound was a toy-hoarder. He used to migrate all his fleece toys from bed to dining room and back again. Any new toy that came into the house was his, even those bought and given to
Renoir who has never shown much of any interest in a toy. They all became Jazz's, some more
well-loved than others - especially his most favorite of all - an armadillo we picked out together
at the pet store. That was his absolute favorite one of all - I think because it was just the two of us and he relished getting to pick a toy. I have seen washed this now 3 legged, short-tongued armadillo and it is in my van.
I miss him. Oh, how I miss him and tears still fall and my heart still aches. The house is abit
I get up, and he isn't there at the foot of the bed, trotting behind me going down the steps. I reach
for the water dish no longer there and to put the cup of food where there is now empty space. I have called Renoir, Jazz. He is no longer sleeping in the bed, I've since washed. His toys are still
scattered in the dining room, waiting to washed.
Oh how I miss him. I was with him to the very end. And he knew, he was loved, as ever, for always.