Snicker was probably the cutest puppy I have ever seen. I should have never bought him at the flea market that fall Sunday afternoon, but I just could not pass up that little, wiggling ball of chocolate fur. He was the runt of the litter, but that’s why I liked him, and although he came with registration papers I really didn’t care. Later this proved to be a good thing.
Before I had even arrived home with him I named him Snicker because he was chocolate and had two little n—, or so I thought. Upon careful inspection I noticed that Snicker was smooth as a silk pillow in the area where there should have been some appendages. I took him to the vet (not the horse vet) and inquired innocently, “Will they ever drop?” The vet looked at me in obvious disbelief and answered, “Do little boy’s drop?” “Well, no,” I stammered, embarrassed. “Then neither do little boy dog’s.”
I took Snicker and never went back. I was beginning to run out of veterinarians.
Let me just say, however, that this did NOT in any way ever deter Snicker’s sex drive. On the contrary, I think it revved it up because he was interested in making love with anything, even inanimate objects like table legs, my leg… You get the picture. By this time, Snicker had also turned the most beautiful shade of apricot, and I seriously thought of changing his name to Milky Way, but that would have really confused him because Snicker might have been cute, but his brains may have been located in those two little sacks somewhere inside. Let’s just say, he wasn’t the smartest dog I ever owned, but I loved him and so did Murray and Bocca.
See, Snicker was a shared dog. It didn’t start out that way, but it happened, and we were all the better for it. Murray and Bocca were my parents’ age and had never had children. They were new to the neighborhood, and I met them through the mutual builder. I liked them instantly and a wonderful friendship developed.
They had recently lost their Pomeranian that had been with them for 15 years (they had an oil, lighted portrait of her in their den). They refused to get another dog because it “hurt too bad to lose one,” but when they saw Snicker they fell in love, and Murray said, bring him over for a few days and I’ll house break him.” And that is when it started. For the next 16 years, I dropped off Snicker every morning and picked him up every afternoon.
Every vacation I took and many nights when I knew I had a late board meeting or school activity Murray kept Snicker. Snicker was my dog, but he was theirs, too. He rode in Murray’s truck to town every day, and got presents like a kid. He loved me, but he loved them too.
When I got the dreaded call while I was on summer vacation, Murray said, “Snicker’s not going to make it much longer, but you’ll have to be the one to have him put to sleep. He’s not in pain, so I’ll wait til you get here. He’s your dog.” But he really wasn’t. He was shared.
I took him to the vet for the last time, but Murray and Bocca bought his plot at the pet cemetery next to their Pomeranian. And when I went to their house and they weren’t home, I knew where I could find them.