When I was at Auburn, there was always a rumor that the vet school was in charge of a group of dogs at the behest of their benefactor. The rumor was that the dog’s owner, a wealthy woman, had left her estate to the Auburn vet school but they couldn’t get the money until after the last dog died. Until then, Auburn was supposed to give them a cushy life.

No idea how true the rumor was but, at the time, I recall thinking “It’s just a bunch of dumb dogs…why would you do that?”

Years later, I remember a group text exchange among my neighbors that was started by this question: “What’s the most you would spend to take care of a pet?’”. The high number was “I’d take my kids out of school and mortgage my house”, and the low number was “twenty five bucks” (guess who).

Somewhere in that time frame, my daughters somehow got two frogs. They were both about a half inch long and were floating in two small, clear containers which took residence in the middle of our kitchen table. The phrase “gag a maggot” comes to mind.

One night, while eating dinner, I noticed that one of the frogs was doing the back stoke except that there was no stroking; the frog was floating upside down. In an unusual moment of clarity, I chose not to say “Your frog sleeps with the fishes” and instead waited until after dinner to say something about the stationary frog and, as one can imagine, the tears flowed. Not long after that, the other frog also bit the dust and turned into our second - and last - frog floater.

My dad was the king of edicts but few ever stuck for long (thanks mom!). That trait likely rubbed off on me, and, because of the floating frogs (and one nasty rabbit), I said, “No pets from here on out! No frogs, dogs, cats, horses, goats, pot belly pigs, fish, …none! No pets! All they do is cause sadness!”

Like Dad’s edicts, mine was ignored because, not long after, I saw someone’s screen open to something like “1-800-get a pet” as well as a variety of pet adoption places. I reminded everyone of the no pet thing and they all said “Uh huh”.

I promptly forgot about it until a few weeks later when a small dog appeared at the house. His name was Steve who I’m told was a Corgi/King Shepherd mix. Initially I didn’t like Steve but, since anyone who met Steve liked him, that level of animosity was tough to maintain for long.

One afternoon, not too long after getting him, I relented and took Steve for a walk except I did it on my mountain bike. If you are keeping score, this is about mistake number four in this story as it turns out that holding on to a leash (wrapped around your hand) while you are peddling, and your dog is running, is a reasonably bad idea. About one block into the venture, Steve went on one side of a sign and I kept going on the other side. The leash snapped back, and Steve and I collided with each other.

As I picked up the bike, Steve looked at me like “You dummy” and we walked over to where the kids were fishing at Fairyland pond.

Mistake number five is on the way.

The kids at the pond that day had chosen pieces of hot dogs as their bait. Some of the kids had gotten bored with fishing and laid their fishing rods down. Like a loaded gun sitting on a table, the kids had left the hot dogs on the hooks.

Steve, being a dog, loved hot dogs and promptly bit down on a chunk that was unfortunately still impaled on a hook. The hot dog got stuck in his mouth and he started choking. The kids at the pond were freaking out and some dad there suggested I run Steve down to a vet that lived a few hundred yards away. I managed to get Steve down there and found the vet. The vet was doing yard work but immediately stopped and started trying to get the hook out of his mouth.

Dogs like hot dogs but guess what they don’t like? Vet’s fingers in their mouth. Steve may have been struggling but he was also having none of the vet probing in his mouth. Guess what vets don’t like? Angry dogs attempting to bite off their fingers.

Withdrawing his hand from Steve’s mouth, the vet calmly said that it was serious, suggested we get him to the vet hospital, and so off we went. I still remember Steve looking at me quite confused and worried as we rode down the mountain.

Until that day, I would have been hard pressed to think a dog had much in the way of feelings but, when we walked into that vet hospital, Steve started looking around, saw all the other animals in various states of disrepair and stated whimpering as he continued to choke. I carried him through the rooms and put him on the operating table.

The vet gave him a shot, Steve went for a nap, and the vet quickly got the hot dog encrusted hook out of his mouth. Steve’s breathing returned to normal and, about 10 minutes later, he woke up.

As he woke up, he looked up at me and then turned his head away. He didn’t look at me for at least a week. Gradually over the next month or so, he seemed to like me and the feeling became mutual.

In this general timeframe, we got a second dog named Jeff. Jeff was purchased at a tractor supply place (?) and was a combo between a long haired dachshund and a chihuahua. He had an IQ on par with a jelly fish but he could run the same speed as a cheetah; especially when he was either escaping the house or in pursuit of a chipmunk. He was ambivalent to most people except one of our neighbors named B who he didn’t like (who knows why because B is incredibly nice). He was especially loved by Izzy who would snuggle with him even though he smelled like a river of stench.

The years went by, and the dogs got older. Jeff continued to catch any animal that could not run/fly less than 40 MPH and Steve honed his teeth on fence posts and the inside of our back door. Neither dog would play fetch but both loved to sit in your lap or on your feet. They were also escape artists and chewed through our backyard fence more times than I can count.

Somehow, some way, I figured out Steve loved peanuts. When I got home at night, he lost his marbles and would loudly bark until I gave him some peanuts. It was the place we bonded the most. He also loved it when I gave him pizza even after I was asked not to. He loved it but afterwards always spread large quantities of pizza barf around the kitchen.

I tried feeding Jeff those same peanuts but every time I gave them to him, his seven neurons couldn’t process the fact that these small tan objects were the same things as the previous night. He would spend five minutes sniffing them and finally would take a bite. After quite some time, I figured out that, if I would pat his head while giving him the peanuts, he would gobble them down.

A little over a year ago, Jeff started looking and acting funny. He got weaker and weaker and odd things started happening.

Finally, one night I went into the room where they slept and saw he was lying kind of funny on his pillow. I put a few peanuts beside his head and patted him. He opened his eyes, whimpered, sniffed the peanuts, licked one, and then closed his eyes. I patted him on the head, said, “Good bye little buddy” and by the next morning he was gone.

That morning, Steve was in his crate (very unusual for him) with this odd look on his face that said “What the hell is wrong with my buddy Jeff?”

Steve was viably rattled for a few days but pretty much resumed his normal happy self until a few months ago. His running got less and less frequent, he had a hard time getting up, he struggled to walk up a step, and had a tough time walking outside. Two nights ago, I tried to feed him peanuts but he just didn’t seem interested. My daughter Sara later told me they were untouched as of the next morning.

Last night I got the call from Sara that every pet owner dreads….”Dad, we are taking Steve to the vet to have him put down.”

As opposed to Steve’s panic during his previous visit to the vet to retrieve a hot dog, this time Steve watched us with no fear. He let us pet him, talk to him and, while he seemed resigned to the moment, he also seemed to enjoy every second of our time together. Sara fed him some type of fake bacon with peanut butter (he got his last peanuts one way or another) and the whole time he seemed ok with what was going on even though his family in the room was not.

In my life, I’ve been lucky to have been spared direct interaction with death. Like most Southerners I’ve seen open casket funerals (I still don’t get that tradition) and I’ve seen two others immediately after it happened. I chickened out and didn’t watch the last few hours of my dad’s battle with ALS. Last night was the first time I’ve seen it happen in person and…it was tough.

In the kindest way possible, the vet explained what she was going to do and that Steve would just go to sleep. She did her job, Steve went to sleep, and then left us to go hang out with Jeff and a field of peanuts. I was, and still am, struck by the suddenness.

In the end, in the fifteen ish years they were here, Steve and Jeff proved that I was wrong about the crazy, rich Auburn lady. While their departure does indeed bring great sadness, the Steves, Jeffs, Alexes, Ketners, Brownies, Pretzels, Buddys, Otises, Cairos, Cecils of the world bring so much joy to so many people (not so much for chipmunks) in their time here with us. To many people, they are more of a family to their owners than their human counterparts; they are truly a gift.

Goodbye Steve….you were a great friend to many and we will miss you.

Archie Willingham

* * *