Fancy Dancer Crigger, 7/4/1996 – 8/4/2008
Little dogs are supposed to live longer than this, damnit. Twelve measly years aren’t nearly enough time. We can only hope her years were happy, if a dog knows such things. She always seemed happy, doing her Pomeranian dance for us, demanding we should pick her up and love her, asking for a treat, greeting a visitor, or wanting to go outside and play.
And love her we did, at first sight.
In the autumn of 1996, we answered an ad. The people placing the ad had to move, they said, and they couldn’t take their dogs with them. They were selling their last litter. So we went to take a look. Three or four puppies came to greet us.
“Oh, look at that one,” my husband said. “That’s the one I want.”
“She’s a runt.” The seller tried to interest us in one of the others, but we’d already decided. We had no children to torment a tiny baby. She’d be safe with us. When we first brought her home, she was small enough to pass through the spaces in our chain link fence. We paid $200 for her, a great bargain considering the love, loyalty and pure joy she’s given us these last twelve years.
She almost got called Sparkle—the 4th of July connection, you see—but the dance characteristic of her breed sold us on Fancy. Later my husband nicknamed her Stub. Again, you can see why, but I always called her Fancy. She, wise little critter, answered to either—when she took the notion.
It didn’t take long for her to learn to tell time. At three o’clock every day when I walked in the house from work, she was waiting for me in front of the door. Every single day. “She goes over and lays down about ten minutes before you’re due,” my husband told me. One of the first words she learned was “Mom.” Gary would ask her that and she always looked at me. She knew. Just as she knew her “dad.”
She shared her home with Lily the cat, who is fourteen and has seniority in the house, and with Jingle Dancer, who turns eight in December. Jingle, when she came, was dominant dog, taking Fancy by the ruff and leading her around when the girls needed—or wanted to go out. Little Fancy never seemed to mind, bless her valiant heart. And now Jingle misses her sister desperately, crying and looking all over the house and yard for her.
Fancy slept every night in a crate beside Gary’s bed. It was her place, where she felt safe. The only time her space was violated was once when the cat went in and the two of them got shut in together. Fancy complained until we took a look and discovered the crowded quarters. Was there a fight? Heavens no. Both the dog and the cat are lovers, not fighters.
My dad was still alive and living in his home when we got Fancy. She even christened his carpet a time or two. We often took her with us to visit with him even later when he was living in assisted care. I think he was always amazed that such a tiny dog (being a hound man, himself) actually was a real dog. Now she’s another link gone to those days as he passed away in 2000..
Fancy’s health started a drastic slide after her mishap with the pond in the winter, and that was probably caused by her failing eyesight. This final spiral has gone fast. Oh, so fast. We weren’t prepared. On her last full day she lay and slept until noon, not even coming for treats, even though her appetite was last to go. Later, I walked with her, very slowly so she wouldn’t fall down too much, and talking so she didn’t get lost. We made a shortened circuit of her back yard and I picked three raspberries for her.
The veterinarian came to our house. She was gone in seconds while Gary held her and I petted her head. Later, the people from the crematorium came to pick her up. We’ll have her ashes back with her picture and her tiny paw print on the casket.
For her, to the best of our knowledge, it was time to let her go. For us, it’ll never be time. She’ll always be in our hearts.
Little dogs are supposed to live longer than this, damnit. Twelve measly years aren’t nearly enough time. We can only hope her years were happy, if a dog knows such things. She always seemed happy, doing her Pomeranian dance for us, demanding we should pick her up and love her, asking for a treat, greeting a visitor, or wanting to go outside and play.
And love her we did, at first sight.
In the autumn of 1996, we answered an ad. The people placing the ad had to move, they said, and they couldn’t take their dogs with them. They were selling their last litter. So we went to take a look. Three or four puppies came to greet us.
“Oh, look at that one,” my husband said. “That’s the one I want.”
“She’s a runt.” The seller tried to interest us in one of the others, but we’d already decided. We had no children to torment a tiny baby. She’d be safe with us. When we first brought her home, she was small enough to pass through the spaces in our chain link fence. We paid $200 for her, a great bargain considering the love, loyalty and pure joy she’s given us these last twelve years.
She almost got called Sparkle—the 4th of July connection, you see—but the dance characteristic of her breed sold us on Fancy. Later my husband nicknamed her Stub. Again, you can see why, but I always called her Fancy. She, wise little critter, answered to either—when she took the notion.
It didn’t take long for her to learn to tell time. At three o’clock every day when I walked in the house from work, she was waiting for me in front of the door. Every single day. “She goes over and lays down about ten minutes before you’re due,” my husband told me. One of the first words she learned was “Mom.” Gary would ask her that and she always looked at me. She knew. Just as she knew her “dad.”
She shared her home with Lily the cat, who is fourteen and has seniority in the house, and with Jingle Dancer, who turns eight in December. Jingle, when she came, was dominant dog, taking Fancy by the ruff and leading her around when the girls needed—or wanted to go out. Little Fancy never seemed to mind, bless her valiant heart. And now Jingle misses her sister desperately, crying and looking all over the house and yard for her.
Fancy slept every night in a crate beside Gary’s bed. It was her place, where she felt safe. The only time her space was violated was once when the cat went in and the two of them got shut in together. Fancy complained until we took a look and discovered the crowded quarters. Was there a fight? Heavens no. Both the dog and the cat are lovers, not fighters.
My dad was still alive and living in his home when we got Fancy. She even christened his carpet a time or two. We often took her with us to visit with him even later when he was living in assisted care. I think he was always amazed that such a tiny dog (being a hound man, himself) actually was a real dog. Now she’s another link gone to those days as he passed away in 2000..
Fancy’s health started a drastic slide after her mishap with the pond in the winter, and that was probably caused by her failing eyesight. This final spiral has gone fast. Oh, so fast. We weren’t prepared. On her last full day she lay and slept until noon, not even coming for treats, even though her appetite was last to go. Later, I walked with her, very slowly so she wouldn’t fall down too much, and talking so she didn’t get lost. We made a shortened circuit of her back yard and I picked three raspberries for her.
The veterinarian came to our house. She was gone in seconds while Gary held her and I petted her head. Later, the people from the crematorium came to pick her up. We’ll have her ashes back with her picture and her tiny paw print on the casket.
For her, to the best of our knowledge, it was time to let her go. For us, it’ll never be time. She’ll always be in our hearts.
posted by CK | 11:52 AM
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