Toward the end of my elementary school career, my family decided it was time for a new dog. While we’d gone small in the past, this time I was hoping for a large breed.
I’d always wanted a big dog, one that could knock me over if it wanted to. A nice lab or retriever, I thought. Someone I could run and wrestle with. Someone I could let pull me down the street on my skateboard. Someone I could pet without having to bend at the waist.
So of course, we got a tiny dog.
My parents brought home an Italian greyhound—think normal greyhound shrunk to quarter size. It was a dog so spindly and slender that it went translucent when backlit by the sun. Not much bigger than a basketball and built like a deer, the dog looked about as strong as a toothpick and as durable as a China plate.
My disappointment lasted all of five seconds, about the length of time it took for someone to put the new dog in my lap.
Originally acquired as a companion to Fritz, our aging miniature schnauzer, Luigi the Italian greyhound was everything that Fritz wasn’t. Energetic, affectionate and playful, Louie (as we learned to call him) was the center of attention from day one.
He would play fetch and tug-o-war. He would let my sister pick him up and carry him around cradled like a baby. If he heard you singing he would throw his head back and howl along. He loved to lick hands and even faces if he could catch you off guard. In his life he never met a lap he wouldn’t take a nap in.
And he could run. Fast.
With his ears folded back and his eyes squinting in the wind, he could rocket from one end of the yard to the other in seconds. For his size, his speed was astonishing. Sometimes you could barely make out his features as he whizzed past you, just a blur of white and tan.
And so it was that Louie became the premier mascot of the Flavin family. Too old to care about his demotion, Fritz spent his twilight years happily sleeping, eating and sleeping some more. Louie rose to prominence unchallenged. By the end of the first year he was part of the family, immortalized in our Christmas cards. When Fritz finally passed on, Louie had full reign over our hearts and the downstairs sofa.
He was in his prime and we loved him. No other dog was as loyal, as cute or as quirky as ours. We rationalized his faults. He didn’t bark too much, he was just a good watchdog. He didn’t growl at strangers, he was just protective of his masters. He didn’t pull on the leash when we took him for walks, he just... well, it made him look silly so it was OK.
Then one day we saw an ad in the paper. A woman was moving away and had to leave her one-year-old dog, Lilly, behind. Already trained and house-broken, all Lilly needed was a family. Wouldn’t Louie love a little sister, we thought. She was even the same breed. It seemed meant to be. We called the number in the ad.
The first time we met Lilly, we were blown away by her obedience. She had mastered and could nonchalantly carry out an impressive list of commands. Louie looked simple in comparison. Well-groomed, mild-tempered and perfectly trained, Lilly was too much to pass up.
Louie didn’t lose his position of prominence the way Fritz had. He remained undisputed king of the castle for some time after Lilly arrived. In spite of her training, Lilly could be skittish and aloof. Meanwhile, Louie had grown up with us. We knew his routines and he knew ours. Things had a comfortable, entrenched feeling. If anything, the two dogs shared the spotlight.
Then Lilly started to come out of her shell, and Louie wasn’t amused. Perhaps jealous of the extra attention we gave her or just growing cranky in his old age, Louie took to pushing Lilly around. A steady stream of growls and aggressive behavior put their friendship on ice.
Monday night, things got ugly between Louie and Lilly. Fur flew, blood spilled, dogs went to the emergency clinic and on Tuesday morning a difficult decision was made. Now Lilly has free reign over the downstairs sofa.
It’s a strange business, losing a pet. I feel as if someone went into my house and permanently rearranged a single piece of furniture in every room. I’ll get used to the new setup eventually and in the grand scheme of things nothing really important has changed, but it can never be exactly the way it was before.
In the meantime I’ll take comfort in the fact that all dogs go to heaven. Even the ones that bite holes in other dogs.
Daniel Flavin is a Trinity senior. This is his final column.
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