She's gonna have to put her down today. Got worse overnight. Neck swollen really badly.
Not gonna bore you with a ton of the sentimental "great dog" stories but I do have one.
In Christmas Story, Old Man Parker was a turkey connoisseur. My dad was a ham aficionado. He waited eagerly every year for ham season which started with a Thanksgiving ham which was followed by a Christmas ham, followed by a New Year's ham. Not long after would come the Easter ham after which he entered the long hamless desert that stretched at least until July and the possibility of a Fourth of July ham with potato salad.
Mid-summer 2005 or so, Gracie showed up at our house. We don't know where she came from. Nobody ever claimed her, but she claimed us. Just a odd-looking black dog with a curly tail that parked itself on the doormat of our front porch and had no intention of leaving. The timing was strange, we'd had two dogs (weird dogs) that had died within a month or so of each other and didn't have a pet. One of the dogs that had died was a large black dog that was allegedly the son of a dalmation. The other was a little brown hound/feist/whatever mix. This new dog that showed up was essentially the same shape as the little one and the same color as the big one. My girls convinced themselves that God had sent this pup to take the place of those two, that she carried them in her soul.
Dog was nice enough and friendly enough. But it had an independent, stubborn streak. It sometimes liked to be alone and would disappear for days. Would just show back up, covered in burrs and mud. Happy as hell. It also severely punished any transgressions it felt had been dealt. Leaving it alone was the most egregious foul you could commit. Leave her in the house by herself? Shit in the middle of my bed. Shit in my ex wife's shoes. Shredded garbage. Shit right in front of the television. Don't tell me dogs aren't vindictive. This one knew exactly what it was doing.
So Thanksgiving comes. Over the river and through the woods. Time to go to see the grands for a few days. My parents have a big house, large lot. Girls are afraid to leave this dog at the house because she will probably run off and they're worried about her not making it home. Damn sure can't leave her in the house for a week-long shit-a-palooza. My parents are like, just bring her. We love dogs.
It's a four-hour drive. Dog is great on the trip. Just rides in the back looking out the window.
Get to my parent's Tuesday night. Dog perfectly behaved, doesn't shit everywhere, stands at the door and quietly, politely asks to go out. Parents are enamored.
Thanksgiving. Mom has been cooking since 6 a.m. for the noon lunch. Ham came out of the oven about 10:30 and she put it on the counter to cool. You know where this is heading.
The kitchen has wrap around counters. One counter faces a sitting room. There's a couch with its back to the kitchen, a six-foot walkway gap separating it from the counter. So basically you come out of the kitchen and can walk behind the couch to the window.
It's nearing 11. My brother and I are outside with our kids throwing the football. Dad's on the porch drinking tea, watching us with visions of ham on his mind. He's already snuck four or five pieces of it. Mom is inside finishing up. Dog has been following behind her, watching her every move all morning. "It's so cute," mom says.
Apparently mom went to change clothes or something. Dad gets up to get a refill of the tea. I hear the screen door screech and then slam back in that satisfying way only a wooden screen door can do. The next thing I hear is this ungodly earth shaking noise. It's like "GUUUUAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHMMMMMMFFFFFFFAAAAAKKKKKKKKK"
I rush inside, girls hot on my heels afraid dad has had some kind of accident or medical event. He's standing in the door of the dining room, facing the kitchen. His face is a mask of rage and pain, his fists clenching and unclenching.
I push past him and see, there on the counter, the dog. Her head is buried in the pan of ham. Her entire body is jerking back and forth rapidly as she attacks the meat. Horrible smacking, gnawing and gulping noises fill the room. It's like a lion ripping into the carcass of a dead wildebeest.
I scream her name and her head pops up to look at me. My girls have crowded in on either side of me and are screaming too.
Ham juice covers her black snout and drips from her jaws. Her face literally glistens from warm ham drippings. Her neck and chest are coated with ham fat and little chunks of shredded pink ham meat. She stares at me briefly and barely hesitates before turning again to savagely attack the ham.
When we advanced on her, she sprang from the counter and ran through the house dripping ham grease behind her like a blood trail. It took us a good ten minutes to corral her and get her out the door. She spent the rest of Thanksgiving staked to a tree as far away from the house and my dad's ire as we could put her.
Thanksgiving was ruined. My dad was beside himself. There was no saving the ham from the damage she'd inflicted. Apparently this dog climbed on the couch back and leaped six feet across the gap, somehow managing to correctly guesstimate the angle needed to slide onto the counter and not hit the cabinets that overhung it. The gap wasn't big. It took skill. Nobody really appreciated the effort that took.
We ended up leaving a day early because he just wasn't getting over it and the girls were worried about the dog getting rained on or running away or whatever. Gracie was never again welcome at my parent's house. It took my dad several years before he could forgive her and even tolerate her at my house on the few occasions they visited.
It's funny to him now that enough time has passed. When I talked to my dad this morning, he said "where ever she goes next, I hope there's plenty of ham."
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