Squeaky

Nearly seventeen years ago, Val and I flew to Maryland to pick up a Yorkshire Terrier puppy from our now deceased friend and breeder, Lee Murray. Even before the birth, which was hard as only one of three puppies survived, Lee knew that I wanted to name her Squeaky after…well, if you don’t know who that is it’s not going to look good in print…

Anyway, form followed function or something like that, because in her early years—rather than bark— Squeaky would carry a stuffed animal in her mouth and make it squeak constantly, almost as dialogue. We would say something and she would literally squeak back. That, coupled with her very human affectation of cocking her head quizzically when you talked to her, made her seem appreciably less than dog-like.

After a year or so, Val and I started to feel more and more guilty about leaving her alone when we went to work, so we decided to get her a Yorkie brother. He was far more difficult to name. I favored “Fidel” which received zero traction. Val finally came up with Cosmo. Cosmo as in “Cosmo Topper” — which she selected before the Seinfeld revelation of Kramer’s first name as Cosmo. Not that we are sensitive about that or anything.

When we brought Cosmo home, Squeaky jumped on the couch, where the diminutive Cosmo could not reach her.  Squeaky was not amused. She alternated between glaring at us and barking down at Cosmo. It would be months before Squeaky would play with him. Despite being smaller, Cosmo was clearly dominant which Squeaky (as dogs do) accepted, content in knowing that it was obvious to the entire free world that she was the brains of the operation.

I often described Squeaky as the perfect dog: sweet, immediately housebroken (I am not going to name names but this put her in select company) very smart, wanted to walk forever — literally miles if you would let her — but mostly wanted nothing more than to be with you. If you were reclined in a chair watching football, she would climb on you and perch on the top of your shoulder like a parrot, wrap herself around your neck and chest, head over your heartbeat, and fall asleep. She loved nothing more than peering out the window or being outside to monitor all neighborhood pedestrian and canine traffic. She developed an inexplicable crush on a certain large, male Labrador Retriever in the neighborhood, and would behave shamelessly in his presence to get his attention. She was the perfect dog.

In her fifteenth year or so, she began to lose her hearing and then her eyesight. Cosmo suffered bladder stone problems and has been to the actual human Methodist Hospital by way of the Purdue University Animal Hospital for procedures on two occasions. I think our vet has built a new wing funded by Trimble dog care but Squeaky had always been very healthy and really had no issues. But the deafness and blindness seemed to happen quickly and there we were.  Sleeping increased to a full time job. Squeaky began to get much thinner, despite still having a healthy appetite. We didn’t realize how much thinner until about two months ago when she casually sauntered through the narrow dividers of the second story loft railing which overlooks our great room.

Imagine a 12-inch high dog falling ten feet down to the great room carpet. Val heard a thump and ran over to Squeaky who was lying on her side but still breathing.  After a few moments, Squeaky stood up, shook herself off and rose to her feet. Val immediately took her to the vet where Squeaky was examined thoroughly. To everyone’s amazement Squeaky was fine.  No broken anything, no internal injuries, nothing.  The vet was so impressed at Squeaky’s resilience that the examination was comped.  I suggested it was a thinly veiled suicide attempt and that we had a “jumper” on our hands, but Val’s only response was to go out and buy plexiglass and put it seemingly everywhere in the house.

Squeaky left the planet Friday afternoon but had started pulling up stakes quite some time ago. We don’t grieve the event, we grieve the absence of what was.

Everybody won. She could not have found a better home and we could not have loved her more. Everybody won. But it is still very hard.

Yesterday we released her. Today, when she opens her eyes, her tail will wag as she sees Lee Murray holding her leash, ready for a long, perfect walk.

John Trimble / 2009

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