Max & Coco - My Default Pups

This post is going to start out sweet and sappy, turn morbid, and then return to sweet and sappy, because I am going to explain my relationship with two weeny dogs. Almost nine years ago a litter of daschunds was born at my brother's house. Six puppies in all and one was to become ours. My husband selected our puppy based on his observations over several weeks. He wanted the most laid back, calmest one of the bunch and so he selected Max. All of the litter were red, and Max was the second largest. At the ripe old age of 6 weeks he came across the street to our house and snuggled his way into our hearts. Over time he became protective, loved only about ten people, (his peeps), and would get a ridge down his back for any stranger who approached. He has never bitten anyone, loves his toys and good food. His favorite person, of course, was my DH. He was calm with him and did incredible things out in the yard, especially with the lawnmower, Max's favorite motorized vehicle.

Ten months later a second litter of puppies was born. On the recommendation of the vet, who said that Max needed a furry friend, we selected a brother, Coco. This time it was my pick, and I chose the darkest puppy. He is mostly red, but tried his hardest to look like his sire, who was black and tan. He is more of a patchwork, red, brown and black. He was and is more active, loves everyone and shares his brother's love for food. He doesn't play with toys, but like his brother, loved my DH emphatically. He also loves lawnmowers.

During lawn mowing season, DH used to disengage the lawnmower blade on the rider and let the dogs chase and chase until they would collapse on top of the storm cellar, and then he could proceed with with the job at hand. This selfless action pretty much describes what a wonderful, selfless man he was and why we loved him so much.

When DH was diagnosed with cancer he became ill and much less active very quickly. The chemo and radiation really took it's toll. The recliner and later a lift chair became the places he spent most of his days. His sidekicks, the dogs, spent most of their days in his chair, too. They were a threesome, and they loved the fact that he was always at home with them. To say they didn't know the reason for their good fortune would be untrue. They knew he was sick and they seemed determined to comfort him.

At the end DH was home. The last three days he was mostly unresponsive. The house was full most of the time with supportive family and friends and hospice workers were in and out. The dogs lay in the bedroom and refused to move. They mostly refused to eat and had to be coaxed. When the end came and the love of my life took his last breath we couldn't get Coco to leave the room. He had to be physically removed. Before the funeral home personnel took his body away, my brother let the dogs lick and smell his hand, trying to let them know that he was gone.

Two and a half years have passed and the two dogs have graying muzzles. They move slower now, but still love to go outside with me and tend to the flowers and walk the yard. They love me and depend on me. They love my mom, and she loves them which is no small miracle. They are her boys, her words, not mine. And yes, they are my dogs too, but only by default.