As any first time dog owner would, I hope for the best. The longest, happiest, healthiest life possible for my beloved Shea. With that, I am pushing for 15 years. At 2.5 right now, Shea will be a part of my life until I am 40. I'd love for more, but will find it hard to accept anything less. That is why I was taken aback when my mother became frantic over my, yes, still in my mind, puppy being dead.
My mother is not a dog person. Never has been, but, with Shea's handsomeness and charisma, she is slowly getting there. But, still, she has no clue about dogs. None what-so-ever. Even less than me! She was not surprised to walk into her bedroom and find Shea, up on her bed. That is a normal occurrence, as he loves the soft, plush comforter on my parent's bed.
What she wasn't expecting was to find him, in what she thought was a dead pose. Belly up, legs in the air, eyes rolled back, and tongue sticking out. A typical Shea sleeping position when he is overtired and feeling comfortable. It's not very becoming of him, but it still brings a smile to my face. My mother on the other hand, was horrified as she though my dog had died on her bed.
She panicked. Thoughts ran through her head of how she would break the news to Jeff and I. Maybe she could cover it up. For a second, she actually considered trying to find a dog that looked like Shea, as if there was some sort of possibility of tricking me. She was dumbfounded at how this dog, a specimen of health, could be dead in her bed and at the ripe old age of 2.5, or about 18 in doggy years.
As she collapsed in misery, probably more the fact of having to face Jeff and I than the end of Shea's life, her quiet whimpering awakened my sleeping angel. He energetically hopped out of bed and licked her. My mother is not one to like dog kisses, but she allowed it on this one, special occasion. For, she was thrilled that her buddy, Shea, was back from the dead.
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