The very first profile picture I used on my Facebook page was of my dog, Fred. I was a little nutty about him back then, when he was my first baby.
We got him from a West Virginia rescue organization. He was the most unusual-looking dog we’d ever seen. Our best guess was that he was some blend of Husky and Basset hound. When we asked the woman from the rescue what she thought, she said, “honey, this is West Virginia. Everything mates with everything.”
He came to us with the name Fred. We called him our West Virginia Huskey Hound, a rare breed. We joked that he was the canine equivalent of what a child of Danny Devito and Uma Thurman would look like.
He was sometimes a very bad dog, but mostly he was very good dog. He was neurotic and stubborn as hell, like everyone else in our family. We were all his people, and he loved us, but he saved his adoration for my husband.
He got sick suddenly this afternoon. While I took our girls to a swim party, my husband took Fred to the animal hospital. I thought they’d both be home by the time we left the pool.
If the title of this post is any clue, I was wrong. He didn’t make it through the night. At 12:45 am I got the text that our poor old pup is gone.
In the grand scheme of all the terrible things happening in our country and in our world, the death of an old mutt is hardly a blip in the radar.
But if you’ve ever loved a pet you know that isn’t true.
Rest in Peace, Fred. All dogs go to heaven.