Snowy: The Infirm Intimidator.

Note:  Since we’ve all shared so many Snowy tears recently, I thought we could use a smile today instead. So here’s a story for you to enjoy about Snowy’s final grand adventure.   

When Snowy started getting sick, I noticed that his discomfort seemed to ease a little whenever I let him lie on the cool, soft grass in our front yard.  Whenever he was out there, I always either stayed right there with him or hooked him to a leash.

However, I let those rules lapse a little last Tuesday afternoon when I was unloading groceries. I thought, “Snowy is near the end of his life. He has severe arthritis. His left hind leg periodically fails him. He has a cancerous tumor. He’s full of enough medications to sink a ship. That dog’s not going anywhere!”

I carried him out to the lawn and carefully laid him down in his usual spot. I watched him luxuriously stretch out his little body and emit an enthusiastic, albeit nonverbal, “Ahhh.”  He was the very picture of canine contentment.

I figured that he should be happy there for a few minutes without too much babysitting and so I continued to go about my task. I had just reached into the van for a grocery bag when I saw a flash of white out of the corner of my eye. 

Standing stock-still for a long moment I thought, “Will someone please tell me that I did not just see Snowy sprint by me and head toward the street?”

I slowly turned and saw an unforgettable sight. My ancient, infirm, arthritic dog was sprinting down the road at full decrepit doggy speed, chasing an 80-pound golden lab. It seems as though the sight of the lab strolling sedately by our house had been too much for Snowy’s chasing instincts to resist and he had roused himself from his splendid, slumberous position and threw himself into the chase.

I was befuddled. Bemused.  And confused.

What was I supposed to do? 

What if this large dog suddenly turned around and started chasing Snowy instead? Or worse yet, what if the dog started fighting with Snowy? Would I have to break up a dog fight in order to protect my baby? What if the big dog attacked me? What to do? Oh, what to do?

Well, you know how we mammas are. When we see our babies in trouble, we throw caution to the wind and do what needs to be done–dog fight or no dog fight. And so I whipped around from where I was standing and took off down the street after Snowy, propelling myself along in an ungainly amalgam consisting of a spirited sprint and a just-barely jog.

As I ran, I shrieked Snowy’s name (loudly) and clapped my hands (even more loudly), since clapping was about the only sound his old ears could discern.

But to no avail. The chase continued.  

We’d gone almost a block by then—the large dog, the little dog, and the big mama, all lined up and headed for the finish line. Wherever that line might be.

Snowy was giving it all he had, running as hard as he could, calling on reserves of strength he hadn’t had much contact with in recent months.  His ears were pasted straight back against his head and his little white feet were churning wildly. Every few steps, his left leg would fall out from under him and he’d stumble a bit before regaining his footing and reapplying himself to the chase.  

Since I had been pacing the floor with him just a few hours earlier, trying my best to comfort him and get his pain under control, I was having a hard time believing that I was watching the same dog. He had been reborn!  Renewed! Reinvigorated!  The chase was on and life was grand.

As I continued to lumber speedily down the road, trying to get some sense of how the whole thing might end, I began to realize that I didn’t need to worry too much about the big dog confronting Snowy. In fact, I saw with amazement that the golden lab was not only running for all she was worth, she was also glancing over her right shoulder every few seconds with great consternation, trying to see if the mighty midget pounding the pavement might possibly be gaining on her.

And suddenly I understood. The big dog was scared. The big dog was intimidated. She was intimidated by a dainty dot of a dog who was not only on the second-to-last day of his life but also had more health problems than any seven septuagenarians combined. This little dog was giving chase with as much verve and vigor as if he had been a 6-month old puppy–and he was loving minute of it.

Then another realization hit me. Snowy wasn’t the only reason the yellow lab was afraid.  She was also afraid because right behind that white bullet was yet another fluffy creature in wild pursuit–only this particular creature was much larger, much louder, and much more alarming.

And then suddenly, the whole scene hit my emotional funny bone and I started laughing and crying at the same time. It was all just so incredibly hilarious and so incredibly dear. I was getting to witness a final glimpse of Snowy’s spunk and spirit, a final glimpse of his determination to chase a dog to the ground, despite the fact that he was failing quickly and fading fast.

I finally managed to catch up with my rheumatism-ridden runaway and snatch him up into my arms while the yellow lab gave one last worried look over her shoulder and hurried gratefully off to safety. Snowy sent a sassy and intimidating growl after her receding form which basically said, “Yeah.  Well, you’d better be glad my mom caught up with me when she did because if I’d gotten ahold of you, you’d have been in a world of hurt.”

Snowy always did think he was one mean dude.

With a ball of exhausted fluffiness in my arms, I turned my panting, disheveled self around and discovered that a van had stopped in the middle of the road and a guy from our neighborhood was perched behind the wheel watching. He had obviously driven up just in time to view the whole show and I can only imagine how amused he was by the display the three of us had put on—especially me, with my screaming, clapping, and flapping maneuvers.

He grinned, leaned out the window and said, “So your dog chased her off, did he?”

In between my gasps for air I huffed, “Yes, he sure did.  I’m just glad he chose to chase a friendly dog.”

He said, “Oh, she’s a sweetheart and everybody’s friend. And she’s also really old, which is why it took her a while to get away. Your little fella really gave her quite the run for her money.”

As my infirm, intimidating dog and I stumbled back toward our house, I sternly admonished him, “Snowy, that was a very disobedient thing you just did, running away and scaring that poor old, dog.  You have hereby lost all your privileges.”

But I was smiling when I said it, and he was smiling when he heard it. He was also smiling a few moments later as he applied himself to the big plate of watermelon I set out for him.

Although he paid for his final grand adventure over the following few hours with some extra pain and trembling,  I couldn’t help but be happy for him that he’d gotten the chance to go out in a blaze of glory.

Little dog.  Big heart.  Bigger courage.

My beloved infirm intimidator.