This blog is dedicated to Forrest, our chow of 14 years. What a good dog he was.
This morning, my husband took Forrest to the vet. The appointment was really made knowing it was probably time to put him down - although my husband wanted the Vet's opinion first. My husband got Forrest when he was a puppy. Before I came into the picture, it was just Geoff and Forrest. Someone told us that Chows only live to be about 8 or 9 years old, and if this is true - then I feel good knowing Forrest had a very full life. To us, it seemed that he just didn't want to let go. Even a few years ago when Forrest first started showing signs of being sick, he just kept plodding along and never really let it stop him. The first sign that Forrest was getting old was probably his weakening hind legs. He didn't seems as strong as he used to be, and sometimes his legs just gave out on him. When this happened, it looked as though Forrest lost his footing or missed a step, but still - it never held him back.
Even this last summer when we got three goats to help "mow" the grass, Forrest tried his best to chase after them like a young pup. Although the goats were fenced up and kept in the back of the property, one day they managed to escape. We were out running errands when our neighbor called to tell us that Forrest was chasing the goats around and around. She said we needed to hurry and get home because it looked like Forrest was going to kill himself in the process. I don't know how long Forrest chased those goats, but by the time we got home Forrest was dragging his back legs along the ground like a leper. My husband had to scoop him up in his arms and hold him. Forrest's poor heart was beating so fast and he was panting so hard he could barely catch his breath. Hannah, Lauren and I just stood helplessly to the side repeating, "Poor Forrest," over and over.
Practically deaf and now getting cataracts, we always made sure to honk the horn before backing our cars up. We knew we needed to be careful since Forrest always slept in the driveway - basking in the sun. And if he didn't hear us drive up at all, the slamming of the car doors would startle him so much, we thought he'd have a heart attack. Poor Forrest.
But I think it was the drooling and the smell that finally convinced my husband it might be time for Forrest to go meet his maker. Forrest would walk around with a long strand of foamy drool hanging from his mouth, and if you weren't careful,..... he would slime you. It seemed that he always sought me out. He would sneak up from behind me real stealth-like and then BAM! He'd lovingly leave a long strand of drool oozing slowly down my calf. Imagine Forrest like the shark in the movie, "Jaws." (If you could please hum along with me....) "Ne na. Ne na,... ne na,... ne na,... ne na,... ne na,.... (a little faster now....) Ne na,.. ne na,..ne na,.. ne na,.. ne na,.... I don't know why, but Forrest chose me as the one he continuously slimed.
And the smell of his slime began getting so bad he smelled like a dog with open sores. When the stench hit your nostrils you had to turn your head from the smell. With the stream of drool he left in his wake and the smell - we had to change his routine and Forrest began sleeping in the garage. He had his bed and his food and water readily available and living in Texas - it wasn't like we were condemning him to an arctic, horrific fate, but we still felt bad.
There was also Forrest's strange habit of eating dirt. You could always find him outside, pawing the ground with his foot as he religiously broke up dirt. Leaning into the hole he created, Forrest would lap up the loose dirt with his tongue as if he was merely licking Nestle Quik Chocolate Powder. Sometimes as he consumed and inhaled his beloved dirt, he'd mow down ant hills and without pause he'd eat the ants too. It was very disgusting to watch. But Forrest was a good dog. He protected us and he loved us. He danced and skipped in front of our cars whenever we came home - he was always so excited to see us. So if the dog liked to eat dirt,... then who was I to try and stop him?
When we lived in Massachusetts, Forrest would catch possums and skunks during the night. Immediately after one of his infamous skunk kills, it seemed as if the whole world reeked of skunk. Summertime in Massachusetts stirs up memories of the sweet perfume of "eau de putois" as Forrest saved the universe, skunk by skunk.
Luckily, we have a lifetime of memories with Forrest. There is "snow-covered" Forrest as he pranced and searched for buried bones in the snow. The "going postal" Forrest, who as envelopes dropped through our mail slot - would joyfully "pounce and shred" at will. Even funnier,... was the time Forrest shredded a check we were anxiously waiting for - (of course it was an unusually large amount,) and my husband almost peed his pants as he desperately dried to piece the check back together. When Forrest was a puppy he fell into a 4 foot hose hole down in our basement. (We lived in a fire station in Massachusetts.) It took Geoff searching everywhere with a flashlight before Forrest was eventually found. I personally reminisce about the two times Forrest bit me - because my husband told me I needed to stand up to him. Thanks honey! And then there was the first time we shaved Forrest for the summer (to keep him cooler.) Unlike his usually aggressive barking self at our fence, he whined and sulked in the yard for days. A neighbor even noticed how sullen Forrest seemed after the shaving and informed me, "that we had obviously taken away his manhood."
And although Forrest will not dance and skip in front of our cars anymore,.... and I will not have to worry about disgusting, foamy saliva oozing down my leg anymore - there is one thing for certain. Forrest will be missed. In a few days, his ashes will be returned to us and we will reverently scatter his ashes into the Texas soil around our house. Appropriately, Forrest will finally be "one" with the very dirt he loved to eat so much. And deep down,.... I know this is exactly where Forrest would want to be.
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