I’m not much of a dog person.  I’m not much of an animal person, truth be told.  Every now and then, though, there will be some animal and our paths will cross and that animal will have to be mine.  Like this one.

I was picking my oldest up from kindergarten one day and the mom of one of his classmates had a box of puppies.  But not just any puppies; they were more like Silver Dollar puppies.  They were *this* big.  Tiny.  Barely hatched.  Cotton balls, I’m not kidding you.  I checked them all out, because I’m not that dead in the heart yet, and one of them waddled her little butt over to me.  That was all it took.  She was ours.

I named her Izzi because the person I hate more than any other person in the world had just pissed me off beyond all belief, cost me a job I loved and a few very important relationships, and I had to get her back.  So I named my dog after her baby.  Yes, I am that much of a bitch.

She is rumoured to be a Pekingese/Chihuahua mix, and I’ve always assumed there was some Terrier in there, but she’s never looked like anything other than an 11 week old golden retriever.  When we brought her home, she was so small she could fit in The Donor’s coat pocket.

We took her to the store to get a leash and collar, and the clerk laughed at us and then took us to the cat section.  Her food bowl was an olive oil dish you use on the table to dip your bread in.

As she grew she learned that she liked to pee like a boy and sleep on her back.

She also figured out one day that if you fucked with her, she could kill you in your sleep.

Her life was a-okay.  We lived in this little tiny apartment with lots of other very large dogs, and she made loads of very big friends that taught her how to bark, how to catch a ball, and how to stick up for herself.  There was a guy who lived upstairs from us, and she loved him and used to break out of our apartment to go scratch on his door until he let her in.  She ate his food and peed on his floor.  We ended up kind of sharing her in a weird sort of ’strangers in an apartment building’ way, (he babysat her, I scrubbed pee out of his carpets) and now he’s my kids godfather.

She liked to sleep with us.  When we first brought her home, she cried and cried and cried (for 10 whole minutes) until we caved and drug her in our bed.  And there she chilled out happily for a long time.

Until, one day, when she realized it was way more fun to sleep in-between momma’s legs while she snored and snored and snored, which was not awesome.  But there was no stopping her, until one day when we fucked her whole world up.

She knew I was pregnant before I did.  She started sleeping at the foot of the bed, right on the floor under where was stomach was soon to be.  She started walking underneath me all day long, she got really crazy territorial around me, and ultimately she starting getting protective.  And by protective, I mean she started biting.  Everyone.

She nipped the boys, she snarled at the mailman, she peed on every.fucking.thing.  She drove me CRAZY.  I couldn’t tell if she was defending me or jealous of the baby, but either way, it was getting out of control.  I started thinking that maybe we couldn’t keep her, what with the baby coming.  And then she got hit by a car.

I realized that screw it, I love that damn dog, and I’m keeping her even if she won’t walk on a leash to save her ass, even if she hides her little turds all over the basement, even if she chews holes in the middle of my mattress.  She stays, period.  And then The Donor got transferred to Canada.

We had to decide if we were willing to bring a dog across a border who bit, whether or not she could handle that transition after having to deal with a baby (whom she actually really liked in the end.)  We ultimately decided to leave her.  We asked The Godfather to take her, but the timing sucked for him.  We asked our neighbors, but they’d just gotten a dog.  The Donor’s aunt finally agreed to take her, and then it happened.

She was across the street, visiting with the neighbors and their new dog, when the cable dude came by to hook something up.  He tried to give her a treat and she punctured his hand.  He was really cool about it, but we knew we were running on borrowed time now.  This was too far, too much.  We decided we’d have to have her put down.  That night, very randomly, my friend Marge came over to visit.  I cried on her shoulder about the whole thing, and she left a few hours later and one dog heavier.

Izzi has been with Marge since June of 2006, and she’s never been happier.  Marge and her family are 4-wheeling, Jeep driving, mountain-living people with loads of cats and dogs for Izzi to be friends with.  I miss her sometimes, but really, she’s so much happier there.  It’s a perfect fit.  She loves them, they love her.  I couldn’t be happier about any choice I’ve ever made than to hand my dog to her that late night in June.

And that’s where the guilt comes in.  See, Izzi, well, she kind of got eaten last night, and now my best friend is bearing the brunt of the sadness over the loss of my dog.  Our dog.  We had a dog together. She had to pick up her, wrap her, bring her in from the cold, call me, and all I can do is sit here and write a stupid post about her. I was home for a year and a half and I never once went to visit Izzi, I didn’t send her a treat on her birthday, nothing.  I gave her up, and she died last night, and my friend is hurting bad from the loss, and I feel horrible about it.  But damn, it was good while it lasted.