A Little MS with a Little MSW

This post is for all the dog people out there. For everyone who has ever experienced the profound love and loyalty a dog has to offer.

I have a miniature poodle named Biscuit. He will be thirteen years old in May and he is my number one fan. Sometimes, life gives us emotions so big, words escape us. And sometimes, there are no words.

He snorts when he wants your food. I call him piggy-poo. He walks up beside you and bats your arm when he wants your attention. Poodles are needy. #iykyk (also, that hashtag is my new pet peeve. Hashtags, in general, didn’t bother me until this one appeared on the scene. Hashtags should not evoke feelings of rage. This parenthetical comment is turning into its own blog post. You Might Need a Therapist If..)

So, back to my beloved Biscuit…

When he was a puppy, he would jump high enough to bat loaves of bread off the kitchen counter. He would then tear open the plastic and stuff multiple slices between the couch cushions in apparent preparation for a midnight snack. (his jumping ability also afforded him his share of Papa John’s pizza). How many of your dogs are or were hoarders? Seriously. My dog is brilliant.

Let’s talk about car rides. I wish I loved anything as much as Biscuit loves car rides. Can you imagine getting so excited at the mere mention of a word that you suddenly have explosive diarrhea? The actual ride experience is mouth open, tongue out, all the way. IF his head is inside the car, his front legs are on the center console, back legs on the backseat, and his entire body is flung off balance in time with every turn.

He loves kisses. We call them “tissy.” He often aligns his mouth with yours and flaps his tongue a million miles a minute while you kiss his nose. He will do this on command. The phrase “gimmie tissy” is like an on button for his tongue. I can’t recall how this started, but man, he is just as enthusiastic about slobbering all over me today as he was as a boy.

He has a little inner demon that I suspect weighs more than Biscuit himself. Even as a puppy, he would growl HARD whenever anyone tried to pull something from his mouth. This demon has risen closer to the surface with age due to the trauma inflicted by his ever-playful little brother (a three-year-old standard poodle). I now have to inform Biscuit that I am going to pet him if he is resting or otherwise basking in the throes of the dementia he has surely found himself in at nearly ninety years of age.

A million other quirks and memories will always fill the Biscuit-shaped place in my heart. I was thirty-four years old, and he 8 weeks, when I first saw him in that cardboard box – the biggest and neediest of his litter. The only one to stand on his hind legs and watch as my daughter and I walked away. I feel such gratitude to have him here, sleeping soundly by my side, almost thirteen years later.