Mom holding Fitz
Mom holding Fitz
Forgive the potential incoherence of this post. Devon and I are sitting here drinking whiskey and talking about Fitz.
Fitz was not a smart dog. Nor was she a strong dog. But she was all heart and made of 100% awesome. If you wanted a dog to snuggle your side, Fitz was your dog.
Catching the death is not cool, Fitz. Not cool at all. We’ve ordered the cats not to die, and Devon has asked me not to die, and I said OK. I mean, anything to make him happy, right? Devon won’t make such promises because he’s a jerk.
Fitz was 12 years old — three years shy of the average lifespan for min-pins, so we lost her too young. We’re still waiting for the dog autopsy to come back, since it happened so fast the vets were never able to figure out what was wrong with her.
I like to think we gave Fitz a good life. Devon rescued her from the road, where she was tossed out of a moving car, and gave her lots of love and food and even tried to take the fall when she peed the bed. I took her to get her nails trimmed and made sure she was stylin’ in her badass dog hoodies.
Here’s to you, Fitz. You were awesome and I love you.
I am so sorry to see Fitz go. I was always fond of her. My favorite thought of her was watching her carefully balance her entire body on just her two forelegs when she would pee. She could have been in the circus. I don’t drink whiskey, but here’s to you Fitz!