Fazzy.

We had tried to get a dog from a breeder a few months earlier, but the breeder was an idiot and it didn't work out. She had let the puppy bond with her family, and when we brought the girl home she fought us every minute she was there. We took her back two days later, and I hope they didn't try to sell the dog to someone else. 

I expected that that would be the end of the Dog Experiment. I was working in Manhattan, a long commute; I had no time for dogs. My wife was working from home, yes, but there was always the chance her company could yank that chain and bring her back in. And we'd just proven that dogs were a mistake for us, right? So I put my foot down on trying another. 

Well, my wife wasn't having that.

Then she found the guy pictured above, and everything changed. 

We brought the little umlaut-eyed fuzzball home during a very cold and snowy February, and I made up my mind that I would not become attached, because he was her dog and I didn't want him to bond with me. I would be friendly and helpful, but I would not love him because Fazzy was supposed to bond with her.

Well, Fazzy wasn't having that. 

"I'm gonna make you love me" was his rallying cry, and of course it didn't take long. He would jump in my lap -- not entirely, because he got huge fast, but with his forepaws on my legs and his grinning face up to mine. If I laid on the sofa he would put his chin on my head. He picked me as his person, and my wife was okay with that, because she knew I had not wanted him but I had fallen in love. 

We took him to training classes, which were really about training us. I took him for long walks. When my wife did get called back into her office, as I'd feared, I left my job and went freelance so he wouldn't be alone. (Her recall lasted less than a month, BTW.) 

We got puppy Nipper so that my wife would have her guy, and after Nipper passed away from cancer much too young, we got Izzy. Fazzy took the intrusions of the new puppies like a pro; he even once stopped baby Nipper from running off-leash into a busy street, like the fuzzy hero he was. When he flopped in my wife's office we called him her executive assistant, Mr. Gooboy. 

Fazzy was such a handsome dog, so appealing, that everyone wanted to pet him, even people who were a little scared of big animals. He loved meeting people and other dogs. His fur was the finest, softest hair I've ever felt. Except for the two Skunk Incidents, over which we shall draw the veil, he usually smelled pretty good. He was one of those dogs with human-like eyes, brown and radiant, soulful. A lady once told me he looked like a dog from a fairy tale or mountain epic. He did.

When Fazzy got cancer last year, at the age of seven -- which is not unusual for big dogs -- I just prayed he would have one more of his beloved winters. I've never seen anyone or anything love the snow more than that dog. 

He got that winter gift and more. He responded so well to the chemotherapy that it looked like he'd be with us a long time, but that was wishful thinking. Whether it was the toll from the cancer or the cure, or something completely unrelated, I can't say, but over this year he steadily lost weight and showed new signs of illness. He was always picky about meals -- irritatingly so -- but soon he was refusing most kibble, then soft food, then some treats, ultimately everything. His bowel movements were like the flow of the River Styx. He had little time left. 

That last day my wife said he was suffering, and I said let's just take him out, see how he's looking outdoors. He was on five prescription drugs at that time, including one that required an oral syringe three times a day. (He didn't seem to mind the taste, but he hated the syringe.) After lunch we took him and Izzy out, and Fazzy did his business, but then sat on the lawn looking down, a real hangdog look, like he was defeated. I gave him half a soft chicken Milk-Bone, his favorite, and he spat it out. 

I called the vet from the porch. 

I'm so grateful we have Izzy. He's still a huge handful and when he gets overtired, which is every night around nine, he becomes a menace. But he's improving daily. After we left the vet, and Fazzy's remains, I thought I would go out of my mind with grief, but with a puppy to care for, who has time to dwell? 

Izzy is exceptionally affectionate and demands attention. Fazzy was not like that, being more independent and even a little hand shy, but he had his own ways of showing affection. He'd just look at you with those beautiful eyes, or shove his head into your underarm or crotch (eek!), or rub his head against you like a cat. If he wanted to play, he might ROWRF at you and prance around like a puppy, which is great fun with a big fuzzy dog. When he settled down, especially later in life, he'd let out his grunts and harrumphs like an old man. He made a lot of interesting sounds; he could yawn like Chewbacca or a rusty gate. He could whine like a pesky Chihuahua. He could grunt like a piglet if petted just the right way. 

I miss him already and always will. He's curled up in my heart now, asleep for the time being. Or maybe what they say is true, and he's crossed the rainbow bridge. If he got there, St. Peter might have asked, "Who's a good boy?" and Fazzy might say, "Me! I'm Mr. Gooboy." 

"No," would say St. Peter. "You were the best boy."