Bandit. He was a good dog, maybe the best. For almost fourteen years, he gave comfort and protection, friendship and love to us all. He barked on the sidelines when my son Teddy’s baseball team won their championship in 2012. He was my wife Sue’s constant companion on epic walks through Arlington and Lexington. Together they found unusual locales that we would never know existed if they hadn’t explored: Concept neighborhoods hidden in Lexington, secret views of Boston from Arlington Heights, woods tucked into unexpected places, and neighborhoods known only to those who live there.
The big guy survived surgery to remove a malignant tumor last April. His recovery allowed us to keep him with us for another six good months. But by early December, time had finally caught up with Bandit. His back legs began to fail, and those long walks grew progressively shorter. We fit him with a body harness equipped with a handle to help him up when he would stumble or collapse. He was still our Bandit, but he no longer sniffed and peed on walks, sending little doggie messages, unintelligible to us, but unmistakably “I am here” to any canine passerby. His once-expressive tail hung limp, or stayed tucked between his legs.
Between Christmas and New Year’s, his appetite left him, and he only drank water. He still knew when it was potty time, but sometimes forgot why he was in the back yard, walking in circles until we gently led him back into the house.
On New Year’s Day, friends came by to visit with the Big Bee, petting him while he lay on his bed. This morning, my daughter Lizzie stopped in before work to say goodbye to him. The in-home vet came by not long after Liz left, and then it was our turn to bid him farewell. I touched his velvety ears as he passed, and cried. He was Bandit, a good dog, maybe the best.
