Last Saturday, our Dalmatian pet, nay, family member passed away in his sleep. His life was shortened by a brutal struggle with epilepsy, which continually battered his body and ruined his brain for the better part of his existence.
Named for the famous chess player, Fischer was the pride of our household — he drew stares and ooohs and aaahs just by sitting at the garden. Both children going to the nearby school and adults going home from Mass never ceased to flash a wide smile and point their fingers at Fischer.
Our dog was also very prolific, having sired dozens of half-Dalmatian puppies; I’m not exaggerating when I write that he might’ve produced more than fifty pups. Among Fischer’s children were the four we lost to Parvo two years ago.
The only consolation for our loss is the knowledge that other people might’ve given up on Fischer early on in his life. Take it from me — an epilectic dog the size of a Dalmatian causes havoc in the household, especially if the dog goes ‘insane’ later on.
Now, even with four dogs remaining, I find the empty space on the living room floor, in front of the TV, to be unsettling. Fischer was sleeping there just a few days ago. Before that, way way back when I was in high school, he used to sleep upstairs. Day in and day out, he’d climb atop my bed at 6 A.M. to wake me up for my class. Licking my face and ears and snuggling by my side would do the trick.
Goodbye, old chap. You will be missed.