My father was a good man. Tall and lanky, kind and good humored. He truly had a dog who loved him. During the four short weeks my dad bravely fought a losing battle with Stage 4 Lung Cancer, Miss Cocoa never left his side. When we brought him home from the hospital, I thought Cocoa was going to implode from excitement.
They say when you least expect it, love finds you. You’re strolling down the street, minding your own business, when Cupid appears and stops you in your tracks. Before you know it, his arrow hits you square in the chest. You’re feeling warm and fuzzy, a bit lightheaded.
Many senior dogs come into shelters or rescues because their owners have become ill or have died. Some are simply cruelly discarded from the only home they have ever known because they have committed the sin of getting old, and their families can’t be bothered carrying through on the bargain all dog parents make, or should make, when taking on a canine companion, i.e. to care for them throughout their lives.
You may not know this about me, but I live with my parents. I know, it’s scary. My folks have cute little habits, like turning the TV up loud enough to puncture your ear drums, and dropping crackers on the floor during Happy Hour. My mom never tastes recipes while cooking, and my dad refuses to close snack bags. Stale pita chips anyone? But hey, they’re housetrained, and will even shake your hand.