She wasn?t supposed to get sick. Again. Winnie, our beloved family puggle, could always be found sleeping in one of several places around the house: on the back of a couch, in her bed, or in my parents? bed. She had become an extension of the furniture, an animate cushion. I?d often lie on the couch where she?d settle into a position just above my eye level, then I?d gaze up at her while she snored and tickle her paws until she got annoyed and withdrew them.
Winnie?s name wasn?t actually Winnie; my brother gifted her as a puppy to his then-girlfriend, now-wife, a little over a decade ago. They named her Princess. Princess became Prin, and Prin became Win, and my parents started calling her Winnie when it was decided that the dog was going to live exclusively with them. With one half of the couple in law school, and both with variable schedules, my parents became her caretakers and she became a fixture in their home. A loud, huggable fixture. An impermanent fixture. She was extremely bright and learned early on where her treats were kept. She became accustomed to receiving one after her dinner and would scratch on the pantry door three times to signal her readiness to accept it. It didn?t take long for this behavior to transcend the quotidian evening notification and occur whenever Winnie felt like eating (often).
Like a catfish trawling the bottom of the riverbed for food, Winnie snatched any morsel that fell on the floor. She stood on her hind legs to attempt to sw...