He’s five and she’s three, and you’ve never met two more oblivious children.  Major Havoc and Captain Chaos tear through life at the speed of sound, which explains the loud crashing noises that we regularly hear from the other room.   They take no prisoners in their quest to entertain themselves throughout the day.  So when the dog became ill, we thought that we’d only have to worry about General Mayhem.   He’s old enough to know what is going on and old enough to care.

            The beast was quite the character.  A half-breed black lab/pit bull mix, the Boss purchased her from a pet store in California fifteen years ago.   By the time I met her two years later, the dog had earned a reputation that would have had most animals shot.  She was critically ill a few days after the Boss brought her home, and the dog needed a few hundred dollars worth of vet care to keep her alive.  She ate a half of a bottle of ibuprofen a few months later and needed to have her stomach pumped.    She used her finely honed hunting skills to track down and capture a frozen beef roast left on the counter to thaw.   The beefsicle was salvaged and from what I have been told, save for a few gnaw marks, was quite tasty.  She was also an incurable adventurer, possessed of an unquenchable wanderlust that matched her name: Gypsy.  Never was a dog more appropriately named.  She was an escape artist.

            I bribed Gypsy with rawhides and chew toys and tug ropes when the Boss and I started dating.  It was part bribe and part self-defense.  The list of items that dog chewed was enormous.   We became fast friends.   During the past thirteen years our adventures with this mutt grew to epic proportions.  So did the vet bills.  Gypsy managed to blow out a ligament in each knee, requiring two separate surgeries to keep her walking.  She escaped one night and returned home with her chest split open, requiring emergency surgery to close her up.  There have been the garden variety trips to the vet and several extra visits to stop the bleeding when she cracked a toenail.  Honestly, our ten-year-old has had fewer doctors’ visits. 

            We knew we had to stop the wandering, so we built a fence. Oh, it was a lovely fence.  The Boss and I installed it ourselves: fifty-three eight foot sections of decorative pickets anchored by fifty-three equally decorative and matching wooden fence posts.  That meant, of course, that we had to dig fifty-three fence post holes.  The Boss handed me a shiny new post hole digger.  I laughed appropriately, patted her on the head, and rented a power-auger.  With the auger standing five feet tall and the Boss towering above it at five feet-four inches, the neighbors were entertained by the sight of the Boss desperately hanging on to the handles of the two-man tool, spinning through the air in large circles, the screw end stuck in the ground while the rest of the machine whirled.  I rather enjoyed watching her, eyes bulging, mouth open, all the while wondering how far centrifugal force would throw her when she eventually let go of the handles. 

            “Honey?” I observed, running to maintain my grasp on my side of the spinning machine. “I don’t think it is supposed to work this way.”

            “Take your hand off the throttle!” she yelled back.

            It was a long day.

            Gypsy dedicated the next few months of her life to exposing the weaknesses in our construction.  She spent a considerable amount of time back on her lead while we tried to answer the question, “How did she get out this time?”  We spent that time walking the yard, filling in dirt around low spots under the fence, rolling boulders in front of larger gaps, and fighting our desire to kick her little black behind.  Nothing was more heart-warming than driving towards the house, only to be greeted by Gypsy, trotting down the middle of the street, thirty feet of chain attached to her collar and a mud-encrusted lawn anchor trailing behind her.  It intensified the feeling of pride we got when we looked at the fence and asked, “We paid how much?”

            In the time that she has been with us, Gypsy earned her reputation for being a loving, gentle, loyal family dog.  She never snapped at the kids, even when they deserved it.   When the kids annoyed her, she licked them.  If they didn’t leave her alone, she’d get up and walk away.  You could take her food away from her while she was eating, or take a bone out of her mouth, and she’d just watch.   Gypsy was naturally protective of our children from the first day we brought home General Mayhem.  We never worried about leaving her alone in a room with our kids.  

            When age and arthritis slowed her down, Gypsy handed over the guard dog duties to George, our rather dim-witted but lovable Husky/Lab mix, and took over the responsibility of using her body to ensure that the couch cushions didn’t float off into the atmosphere.   Occasionally she’d actually lift her head when she barked at a strange noise.  More often than not she’d snore right through it.  It did not take Captain Chaos long to figure out that she was eye level with the dog when she stood next to the couch.  This led to the Captain’s favorite past time…doggy kisses.  It wouldn’t have been so bad if it were only her face that Gypsy “kissed.”   It would be closer to the truth to say that the Captain stood with her jaw agape while Gypsy licked the roof of her mouth.  It’s hard to say which one enjoyed the game more.

            The decline in Gypsy’s health came suddenly.  She dropped a lot of weight.  Petting her was like petting a thestral.   She was all skin and bone.   Her lungs were filling with fluid and her arthritis made walking difficult.  We made the decision to put her at rest when we saw that the quality of her life was quickly sliding from good to bad.  Once the appointment was set, we arranged to have the kids play at a friend’s house while the Boss and I took Gypsy to the vet.   We figured that we’d return home and go about life and eventually they’d realize that one dog was missing.  We could explain it then. 

            Gypsy went quickly and easily.  Last Saturday morning she laid her head on the exam table when the anesthetic hit and a few moments later she was gone.   The vet conducted a brief exam while we stood holding our dog and informed us that Gypsy’s lymph nodes were huge.  She probably had cancer.  We had saved her from a tremendous amount of pain. 

            We picked up the kids and took them home.  The ride was mundane.  We clambered out of our minivan and headed into the house only to hear Major Havoc ask, five seconds after arriving, “Where’s Gypsy?”   I don’t think I’ve ever heard him ask that question before.  The General heard, and he too started to inquire as to the whereabouts of our dog.  So much for our plan.  We had to fess-up immediately. I really did not know that the Major liked Gypsy that much, or that he expected to see her diligently lying on the couch whenever he returned home. 

            So we consoled the General when he started crying and we told the Major that Gypsy was sick and that she had to go live with the doggy doctor.  He understood that.  Captain Chaos looked around the room and asked, “Potty, mommy?”  Blessedly oblivious.  She’ll probably never remember that dog. 

            And now the house just seems...empty.