It is, at the same time, bittersweet. Greyson has, since his introduction, been the 'self-insert' of my dog, Smudge. Smudge was born on a Saturday morning - Year of the Dog, on September 10 in 1994. I was fifteen at the time. He was the runt, born hours after his siblings, rejected by his mother, and hand-fed by my family. He stayed in our family all of his nineteen years, living with my parents, my brother, and with my husband and I. Smudge was three when I got engaged, five when I graduated, six when I got married, ten when he started to run agility (yes, ten, as part of an ascpa program on teaching old dogs new tricks) and on it goes. There are photos of him dressed up as Nibbles the purple bunny, compliments of my creative brother. He was sixteen when he came to live with us, and even at eighteen, this amazing dog, who by all standards of nature should not have lived through his first day, still wanted to run up and down the driveway at eleven at night.
Almost a year ago, on Good Friday of 2013, Smudge had a seizure and collapsed in our yard. He was prone to them before that, but this one was bad. We thought we were going to lose him. Instead, he started to recover, until we discovered a wound on his hip. As it got worse, we consulted vets, and they performed surgery. Once again beating the odds, scans showed no cancer, and 'stellar' bloodwork. He made it through surgery, where the muscle in his thigh was removed. He even recovered from that, and walked again. Another seizure in the fall caused more trouble, but still he pressed on, always trying to hobble, walk, and run again.
On Christmas Day 2013, he spent his final day with us. None of us knew it would be his last - he ate hotdogs, watched television with us, and dozed off in the middle of a movie. Smudge never woke up the next morning.
Losing him has been one of the most difficult things I have ever dealt with. Most people lose their childhood pets during the childhood, or when they're teenagers. Sometimes, in college. For me, I had the blessing of the childhood pet who I didn't have to say good-bye to until I was 34. The trouble is, after nineteen years, it's really, really hard to say good-bye.
I started writing this story out during his recovery. Some of it I wrote while sitting next to him, not realizing it was Greyson's swansong. I stopped abruptly when Smudge died; I opened the file again on Ash Wednesday. It just seemed appropriate somehow. I think I needed to finish this, as much for Smudge as for me.
If you read this far, thank you, through your readership, for being a part of Smudge's life.
And yes, to answer the question, while not full-blooded like Greyson, Smudge was part wolf. May he howl on in Heaven.