So, for those of you that don't know me that well, I have a dog named Norton. His full name is in the blog title; he agreed to take Smitty's name after much sniffing and treats, and I have had him since March '00. I got him at Animal Control in Huntsville, he's a total mutt, part Beagle, German Shepherd and Chow, and he is quite simply the most awesome dog ever. I got him when I was living in a house full of other dogs and just decided, in the way that you do when you're 22 and don't consider responsibility thoroughly, "I totally need a dog."
When I picked him out, he was with three siblings who looked almost exactly like him, but I was drawn to him immediately. He looked scrappy and seemed to exhibit the friskiest personality. I took him into a little room where they let me hold him to decide, and I was hooked. I put his paw up to the fence to tell his siblings that he was leaving, that I promised to take good care of him, and he would be loved. I think one of them sneezed on me and walked away.
Norton was one of my first real forays into responsibility. We had dogs growing up, but my dad was really the sole caretaker, the one that made sure they were fed and had their shots. We just played with them and did the fun part. The next thing I'm about to say is really, really gross, but when I first got him, he had worms. I had no idea what this was and thought maybe he had eaten spaghetti or a power cord. My roommates advised me I was incorrect, and being that he was my dog, I had to clean up the offending poo. I picked it up, disposed of it, and then ran to the bathroom and threw up. I made sure he had all his shots, I had him neutered, for logical reasons and for fear the patchouli hippies from Animal Control would sic a wombat on me if I didn't, and I house-trained him.
He has lived in six places in 11 years, has ridden with me back and forth from Huntsville to Mississippi more times than I can count, held his bladder the night I broke my ankle because I couldn't take him outside until reinforcements arrived (he peed for 5 minutes straight when he finally could), slept on my bed, rightfully sussed out the good/the bad/and the ugly where boyfriends were concerned, and stolen food from plates, only to make a "hhhahh" noise realizing it was too hot and flung it on the floor, just to name a few things...he's my furry little heart.
This morning, when I went out to feed him and Zoe, our hyperactive German shepherd, he started walking how I can only describe as sideways, like part of his body was numb, and then he collapsed and couldn't get up. I completely freaked out, called Smitty, ready to commandeer a dog ambulance, if necessary and then realized (or maybe Smitty rationally told me) that I needed to calm down, he's had arthritis, and give him an aspirin. I did this, begrudgingly went to work and worried all day, and came home to a perfectly frisky tail-wagging dog.
I'll spare the story of how when I let him out of the fence to let him in the damn house to keep an eye on him, which we NEVER do, he briefly ran away. I had to pick him up in the car after driving with the windows down calling his name like an idiot, and then carry him in the house, where he paced like an expectant father for an hour because he clearly thought I was up to something. I love that freaking dog. I'm not a child, I realize that pets die, and I know he won't live forever, but I'm not quite ready to let go of him yet. I had to let go of my father, I don't want to lose my dog, too. So, there.
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