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Sunday, October 6, 2013

RIP, Satch

It is with great sadness (and smothered laughter) that I bid my dog friend, Satchmo, adios.  Satch was the w-a-y elderly, peanut butter dapple dachshund of my brother's, with the gimpy back leg.  He was originally adopted and then returned to the breeder because of his "gimpiness".  My brother, being a hot dog mess, had to have a puppy one Christmas, so he took Satch home.  Period.  A forever home.  Satch was a great guy and all around happy to be here kind of dog unless you were a rabbit, or other dog he decided he didn't like.  He was a hunting loving hound so it was not in your best interest to look or act anything like prey.  If you did, the end result was not pretty.

Satch met his maker last night we think possibly due to a misstep--right into the pool.  He was hanging out at a friend of my brother's house, outside where he had been before, but at his advanced age...well, let's just say every place is new.  The pool is apparently level with the ground and perhaps a wrong turn or a tumble landed his poor old self, right smack in the soup.  He was a good swimmer as a young gun, but these days probably not so much, and mix that with the shock of falling into cool pool water and it was too much for his old decrepit self. 

My brother found out late last night that Satchmo was no Diana Nyad, and by the time he got back to the friend's house, they had fished Satch out of the pool, and wrapped him lovingly in a towel.   It was well after midnight by now, so whadaya do with a dead dog at that time of night?  Well...if you are my brother, you put him in your apartment's freezer. 

As my brother is telling me this tale over the phone, I'm OK up to that point.  Until the freezer.  And then I just lost it.  Grief does that to me.  I laugh at the most inappropriate times, and try as I might, it just spirals out of control from there.  We all process grief differently and mine goes into hysterical laughter every time.

Once I got rolling, my brother got a feeding frenzy, only worse.  The next thing I know my brother is telling me "Yep...Satch is right up there next to my Trader Joe's Indian food."  Someone was beeping in so we didn't get to finish our conversation about what happens next for Satch's remains but my brother mentioned he "might try microwaving him next" to see if he could bring him back-- to which I howled again.  Geeze...we are some sick people.

RIP, Satch. 

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