Mr. Winston

Winston was a once-in-a-lifetime dog. He came from a farm in Dickson, Tennessee where he spent his puppyhood barking at horses and eating the tasty delicacies they left behind. On the day we met him, the farmer's wife had just planted some beautiful flowers to welcome spring. We could only laugh as he unplanted those flowers one by one in a matter of seconds. He was a character from the start. 

As a puppy new to the great indoors, Winston found interesting ways to entertain himself. One of his favorite pastimes was taking his tennis ball to the top of the stairs, nudging it so it fell, and chasing it as fast as his gangly puppy legs would allow. Over and over and over and over again. Riffling through trashcans was also a way Winston enjoyed spending his days. His energy was boundless and often times absolutely terrifying. John found that wearing him out wasn't all that easy. He would chase John for miles on mountain biking trails, hike through the woods for hours, and fish like a pro bass fisherman.

After the kids were born, we moved to a small acreage and made an outside dog of him. Honestly, I don't think he minded at all. There were opossums to "kill" and then "kill" again the next time he caught it. Once we thought we lost our beloved dog. We drove many miles, searching the countryside for him. I didn't sleep a wink that night. Over and over again, I thought I heard a noise that might be him. I was devastated when each sound was just my imagination. The next morning I started calling the neighbors. An elderly man who lived right next door said he had seen Winston in his shed the previous day while he was working in there. He went and opened the door to his shed, and Winston came sprinting home like a teenager who knew he was in trouble for missing curfew.

Then we started this grand adventure, our nomadic life. Winston stayed with my sister for almost a year when we rented a house from a family who wasn't too keen on dogs. I felt bad asking for him back because Linda loved him, too.

For years, Winston has been my companion. He followed me throughout the house, from chore to chore. He knew which cupboard contained his treats and how to tell me when he had a craving for a milkbone. He tolerated and perhaps even grew fond of our cat, Obi, who loved to bat at his ears and stole his bed from him.

Last weekend, Winston got sick. The bad kind of sick where you knew the end was near. And yet, I still wasn't ready to see my best fur friend take his final breath here on Earth. You're a good boy, Winnie. Mama loves you. May there be milkbones and a comfortable couch in Heaven.