The house is so quiet without him. Whenever someone went by outside, Dickens would run to the kitchen window and bark at the potential intruder. Then he would run to the glass paneled front door and growl at the sinister pedestrian. Finally, he would dash down the hallway into our bedroom and leap up onto the window seat and bark and growl at the perceived villain from the bedroom windows. After he barked and growled himself hoarse, he would jump down and trot back into the kitchen and guilt me into giving him a treat as a reward for terrorizing the aforementioned axe murderer.

Dickens the Sailor

On the pontoon

Summer just wasn’t the same without him. Dickens loved riding on the lake in our pontoon boat with us. He loved the boat but hated the water. He especially loved to stand up front with the wind blowing in his face. We always took snacks and drinks with us, and we took treats for Dickens too, of course. He wasn’t much of a gardener but he loved being outside with us and he poked his nose into everything. He also loved wandering off to play with our neighbor’s dogs without letting us know so we’d have heart failure thinking he ran off and we’d never find him again. Fourth of July was definitely a challenge for Dickens. Fireworks terrified him, so we’d shut the blinds, crank up the stereo, and keep him inside so he wouldn’t see or hear anything.

Halloween wasn’t the same without him this year either. I always dressed him up in a costume—as Superman or as a sailor—and he looked so adorable helping MG and me hand out the candy. He scooted to the door ahead of me the instant he heard the Trick or Treaters scampering up our driveway. He barked and wagged his tail in greeting when they rang the doorbell. He wagged his tiny tail so hard his whole hind end wagged along with it. The kids always made a great big fuss over him and he lapped it up. On a nostalgic impulse, I brought his tin of ashes out to the foyer and set it out so he could be with us in spirit to great the Trick or Treaters. Just writing about it made me tear up just now.

Thanksgiving will be different too. In a few days, we’re driving down to North Carolina to spend Thanksgiving week with our Firstborn and his family. This is the first time since Dickens became part of our family that he won’t be traveling with us to visit them. He also won’t be traveling with us when we head south for our winter vacation. Both will be lonely trips for us. We always stayed in pet friendly accommodations on the road with Dickens. He was very well behaved so long as we didn’t leave him alone in a hotel room. For some reason being in a hotel room alone bothered him. He once tried to dig his way out of one. We never left him alone after that. He loved riding in the car, and he was a good little traveler—except when he would scale the mountain of luggage and coats piled on the seat beside him. He loved the vantage point from the summit of the luggage mountain.

I’m feeling especially sad and missing Dickens more than ever this week because my heartbroken baby sister lost her fur baby a few days ago. He was part of a litter named for famous rock stars—he was tagged as Jerry Garcia, just plain Garcia for short. Garcia was a very sweet, affectionate vizsla and had only recently turned nine years old before he became ill. He and Dickens were good buddies. They had a great time playing together despite their size difference. Whenever we visited, Dickens would commandeer Garcia’s favorite bed. Garcia was always very tolerant and the perfect host. He never evicted Dickens from his bed. Probably the funniest incident that took place was on the day that Garcia saw me cuddling Dickens on my lap while we were in the kitchen after having breakfast. Seeing Dickens and me must have inspired Garcia to be a lap dog too, because he clambered up onto my baby sister’s lap with hilarious results. I snapped a photo of the two of them and it never ceases to make me laugh.

I like to think that Dickens was waiting on the other side when his buddy Garcia crossed over the Rainbow Bridge, and that they are now playing together once again, pain and illness free.

On an April afternoon seventeen years ago, I brought home an adorable schnoodle puppy, little more than a tiny ball of curly black fur. When I held him in my arms, cuddling him, it was love at first sight.

The English Major in me wanted to name my new puppy after a famous writer. Macho Guy nixed letting me call the pup Shakespeare. The last thing MG wanted was to be outdoors in front of the entire neighborhood calling, “Here, Shakespeare!” I had to give him that one.

Then inspiration struck—a famous writer’s name that could have two meanings. Why didn’t I think of it sooner? So, I named my little fur baby Dickens. The name suited him perfectly.

Dickens was born on March 17, 1999. He had a rough first six months of life. He was less than three months old when I noticed him behaving erratically, walking into walls, unable to eat or drink, and unable to sleep. At first, these spells didn’t last long and the cause went undiagnosed. Then one alarming spell lasted all night long while Dickens and I were out of town visiting Firstborn, his wife and their new baby.

I got Dickens to a vet first thing in the morning and learned that my little puppy had a congenital birth defect known as a portosystemic shunt. This anomalous blood vessel diverted his blood away from his liver so it went through his system and reached his brain without being detoxified. The poor little pup must have felt as if he was on LSD.

Then came the big decision: pay for surgery that would save his life or have him put to sleep. I didn’t have to think about it at all. Dickens already had me wrapped around his little paw. About six months later, MG admitted that he was glad we saved Dickens’ life. By then, Dickens had wrapped MG around his little paw too. It was impossible not to love the way the little guy would gaze up at MG with adoring eyes while he curled up with MG in his recliner.

Dickens brought so much fun and affection into our lives. We both doted on him. He had become our four-legged child, according to our two grown sons.

Dickens loved to play and so loved his toys, especially the squeaky ones. The little guy was incredibly smart too. Each time I bought him a new toy, and I bought him more than a dozen all told, I gave it a name and told it to him. When we played fetch, I would tell him to fetch each toy by name. It surprised the heck out of me the first time he did it and got all of them right! Fetch was his favorite game. It wasn’t until Dickens lost his hearing in later years that we stopped playing it.

It wasn’t all play and no work. Dickens had chores and he took them seriously. It was his job to wake “Mommy” in the morning. “Daddy” would send him to our bedroom when it was time to get Mommy up. Dickens would race down the hallway, leap onto our bed, pounce on me, and stick his cold little nose in my face. No need for an alarm clock after that. Dickens was also in charge of announcing when Daddy got home from work. He charged down the stairs to my home office barking excitedly, and then stood on his hind legs with his paws on my arm so I’d have to stop typing. His other daily job was to escort Daddy down to the mailbox to collect the mail and the newspaper.

Dickens had a love/hate relationship with water. One of his favorite pastimes was riding on the lake in our pontoon boat. He loved standing at the front of the boat with the breeze blowing in his face. Sometimes he sat on one of the couches and cuddled with me, no doubt because I was the keeper of the doggie treats.

Did I mention how much Dickens loved his treats? Couldn’t get enough of them. I confess to being an enabler. I spoiled him rotten, letting him have several a day.

Although he loved the boat, Dickens wouldn’t set foot in the lake. We figured it was because he accidentally fell off the dock into the water as a pup, dogpaddled to shore, shook himself, and decided that was enough of that. He felt the same way about baths. Dickens loathed bath time. No matter how sneaky I was getting his bath stuff ready, he always knew what I was up to. I think he had ESP. I’d look for him and find him hiding behind MG’s recliner. He’d be shaking all over, and I could see the look of dread in his eyes. He trembled the entire time I bathed him. My favorite part of his bath time was when I wrapped him in a towel like a baby, sat with him in my lap, and cuddled him until he was almost dry.

Dickens had wardrobe: sweaters, a winter coat, a storm coat, and boots. He even had Halloween costumes. Yes, I spoiled him that badly. The first time I dressed Dickens in his Superdog Halloween costume he appeared mortified, but I thought he looked so darn cute. From the look in his eyes, I surmised that he didn’t agree. Were he able to talk, he might have said, “Mommy, how could you do this to me?” That changed when the Trick-or-Treaters began ringing the doorbell. They all made such a fuss over him, petting him and saying how cute he was, that his tail began to wag. Soon he was preening and thoroughly enjoyed himself—year after year.

Dickens was a good little traveller. He loved car rides but especially enjoyed travelling with us in the motorhome we once owned. It was just the right size for a little guy like Dickens. His favorite occupation once we set up camp was to perch atop the dash and be a busybody watching all the campers who went by walking their dogs. We went south every winter once MG retired, and Dickens seemed to love every minute of it.

At the end of last year, I asked my brother-in-law, who is an accomplished artist, to paint Dickens’ portrait from a favorite photograph I have. I suppose I sensed that Dickens wouldn’t be with us much longer, and I wanted something extra special to remember him by. I have so many fond memories of Dickens, far too many to list them all here, but there are sad memories too.

When Dickens’ turned sixteen, his vet marveled at how healthy and strong he was for a dog his age. That was the last year Dickens enjoyed good health and quality of life. By an odd coincidence, his health began to deteriorate this past January shortly after I fell and broke my hip when we were in Florida. While I was hospitalized, Dickens had a seizure. He was never the same afterward and his health began to decline. My sons were convinced Dickens and I were like ET and Eliot, that Dickens health was failing because I was injured and in pain.

By the time we returned home in March, Dickens was growing weaker by the day. We soon learned he had developed health issues that could not be cured. He made it to his seventeenth birthday but there would not be another.

After all those years of Dickens’ being part of our family, it was a heart wrenching decision to end his life. We didn’t want to part with him but we couldn’t stand to watch him suffer any longer, and we both wanted to be there with him when he breathed his last. Our dilemma was that I wasn’t strong enough yet to take Dickens to the vet’s office with MG. I had a second hip surgery in March and was still recuperating.

Dickens’ compassionate vet came through for us. He understood the situation and sympathized. He came to our house to perform the procedure.

On April 7, 2016, Dickens died peacefully while cradled in my arms and in his own home, the place where he lived a long and happy life with two pet parents who adored him and are now heartbroken because they no longer have the joy and pleasure of his company.

At age twelve, our Lovable Lab left us for the Great Dog Kennel in the Sky. I was heartbroken and wouldn’t consider getting another dog. I didn’t want to face the future loss of another pet. Aside from a few bad habits—filching our unguarded snacks, shedding constantly and passing toxic gas—Lovable Lab would be a tough act to follow.  No more dogs. Nope. Never again. Wouldn’t let the guys bring up the subject in my presence.

I should mention that I was and still am the only female in our household—even our pets have always been male—so I was outnumbered. The male majority decided to get another dog. When I objected once more, Macho Guy, Firstborn and Baby Brother voted me off the island.

The male triumvirate decided against another Labrador retriever. No other Lab could measure up to Lovable and would be a continual reminder of our loss. They bought a book on dog breeds and began searching the contents for Lovable’s successor.

Pay very close attention to what I am about to tell you. It’s crucial, and here it is: Never choose a dog based on what you read about the breed in a book. I cannot stress this enough. Never. Never. Never. We did it once and only once, and it was one time too many.

The triad discovered their candidate for pethood in that dog book. They fell all over themselves trying to win me over to the dark side. They were the irresistible force; I was the immovable object. The threesome took the book to me already open to the page devoted to the American Eskimo breed and insisted that I at least have a look.

I looked. The breed resembled an arctic fox. Beautiful, really. Pardon me for employing a cliché; its long fine fur was as pure white as snow. According to the book, the American Eskimo doesn’t drool, its fur has no odor and stays clean when brushed regularly, and the breed only sheds once a year. {The troika was quick to point that out; the three knew how much I disliked vacuuming up after the constantly shedding aforementioned Lovable Lab.) The one negative I spotted was “likes to bark.” The more I gazed at the dog’s photo, the more uneasy I became. You know that hinky feeling you get when you sense impending disaster? Well . . .

Of course I gave in. Being outnumbered and outvoted guaranteed that I would. The big boy and the two little boys began scouring the classifieds to find American Eskimo puppies. Victory whoops accompanied the discovery of a breeder a short distance from our home. Oh, joy.

Naturally, the testosterone trio picked out a male pup. He was three months old when we took him home, and he was not housebroken. He demonstrated that little detail on several occasions. I suppose we were partly to blame for his becoming our problem pup. We didn’t have sense enough to buy a crate and crate train him. Instead, we put the pup in the boys’ old playpen.

Eventually, I learned that the dog book contained a significant inaccuracy about American Eskimo dogs. Remember the claim that this breed only sheds once a year? Right. Our AE started shedding on January 1 and stopped shedding on December 31, so sure, that’s once a year. The dog book also contained a huge understatement: the American Eskimo dog likes to bark. No. Our AE loved to bark and barked constantly. He lived to bark. He even barked at bird farts.

There were also noteworthy omissions from that book. For example, AEs are trash connoisseurs, and they can climb. I discovered these missing details when I returned from shopping one afternoon. Before leaving, I put our little AE pup in the playpen. Upon returning home, the pup greeted me at the door, panting, tail wagging. That little surprise was nothing in comparison to the shock I experienced when I walked into the war-torn battleground that once was my kitchen. The trash receptacle lay on its side, mortally wounded, its innards strewn on the floor in every direction. The invading force sat at my feet wagging his tail and beaming with pride at the devastation he wrought. In his twisted little mind, I believe he expected praise for his accomplishment. I imagine my screams startled and confused him.

That was only the beginning. The list of the AEs escapades is extremely long, so I’ll just give you a few of the highlights.

One week after we brought him home, he bypassed the steps and attempted to leap onto the back deck from the ground. He didn’t make it. He slammed into the side of the deck, broke his right hind leg and fell to the ground.

Baby Brother (a teen by then) left an open bag of chocolate stars in the den and went out to play hoops. The AE ate the entire bagful. During the night, he barfed up the chocolate all over the house, staining our greige carpet, and had to be rushed to the vet with chocolate poisoning.

The AE loved to chew things but he was very selective. He never chewed anything old, always something new. For example, Baby Brother had two sets of headphones lying on his bed, one new and one broken. The AE chewed the new one. Macho Guy bought himself a new pair of wingtip shoes. The AE got into his closet, ignored all the older pairs of shoes and chewed the tongues out of the brand new ones. Macho Guy is also our handy guy. He had a huge collection of power tools in his basement workroom. We locked the AE down there to keep him from wrecking the rest of the house while we were out. We even put him in a harness and tied him to one of the posts. Somehow, he slipped out of the harness and chewed all the cords off Macho Guys power tools.

One time Macho Guy set out to catch a mouse in the den with traps baited with peanut butter. He caught something bigger. The AE loved peanut butter and he was always too curious for his own good. He found one of the traps. We heard a loud WHAP! The AE barreled out of the den yelping. He slammed into one wall after another and then began running around the house. When we finally caught up to him, we discovered the trap hanging from his tongue.

He also succeeding in embarrassing the family by flunking dog obedience school twice.

I cannot explain why, but we all loved that crazy dog and were grief stricken when he died. If nothing else, the AE was unforgettable.