Goodbye, girl.

Last Friday, 12/2/11, we had to put our Bella down. She was 13 and a half. Four weeks ago, Doreen took her to the vet to get her ankle looked at. She’s always running around and digging up the back yard and we just figured that she tweaked it. She had bone cancer.

All we could do is make her feel comfortable. There wasn’t a procedure the vet could perform, no chemo, no nothing. Just pain management. And when the second round of drugs stopped working, well, that was just it.

- - -

Bella was such a character. A huge personality. So kind. So sweet. And it didn’t matter who you were, she was going to sniff your crotch. It was humbling— made you feel like you missed something— but in some ways, her crotch-sniffing was like an equalizer. She didn’t care who you were— a candidate for local office, a publisher, Internet famous— you got your crotch sniffed. It put everyone on an equal plane.

Then there were the farts. I found my Twitter voice through her farts.

At 2:14AM my dog’s farts gained self awareness. They’ve attacked relentlessly through the night. Sending Sweets back in time to save us all.

If you could smell my dog’s farts right now you would think she’s racist.

Bella the adorable greyhound just farted so evil Quiet Riot burst through the wall and took me on a tour of a 19th century British madhouse.

Oh, how we play, the dog and I. It wasn’t the paw to the nuts that said “I love you,” it was the deviled-egg laser fart she shot at my face.

These days it’s just me and my dog. Which makes what she just did the loneliest fart of all.

I found Twitter when Doreen went away to school. For three years we lived apart, her with her big ideas and me with the Bellaphant. It would’ve been so easy for me to slip into some kind of juvenile existence. Twitter provided a safe outlet for my immaturity. Bella’s health and well-being kept me responsible.

Bella returned the favor in kind. Sometimes— too many times, really— I’d work late into the evening completely unaware of the time. The house was dark and my eyes were stuck in focus to the exact distance between my head and the monitor. Bella would notice the pause in keystrokes or mouse clicks and slowly rise from her pad in my office. Her tags jangled as she’d two-step up into a downward facing dog, open her mouth, yawn, snort, lick her chops and walk over.

“You know what you need?” She’d say as she’d butt her head under my hand. “You need to scratch my ears and listen to me.”

I’d start scratching and her eyes would close slightly as she leaned into it.

“Mmmm. That’s nice. Keep going… Yesss. OK. Right. First we’re going to go downstairs and you’re going to let me out so I can go potty and patrol the perimeter. While I’m doing that, drink a glass of water and stretch your shoulders out. You really should take breaks.”

“Once the yard is secure, you and me are going on a walk. It’ll get your blood flowing and there’s that rock I need to pee on. Lots of activity going in the neighborhood lately— nothing you need to worry about— you just keep walking.”

And we’d go out into the night. She’d sniff around and herk ‘n’ jerk between message drops, new scents and her favorite spots. I’d keep walking and let the chilly night air slowly pull me out of my work-mind— when I’d start thinking for myself instead of the customer, the boss, or the number. I was lonely. I was letting myself go. I missed Doreen so much.

“Hey!” Bella would say, “Did you see that? I totally peed on top of that other dog’s pee. What an asshole!” She’d jog up, tongue lolling about.

“You cool? Yeah?” She’d ask, skipping ahead a bit, pausing briefly to shake like an athlete cooling down.

“Great. Let’s get back home and feed me.”

- - -

Greyhounds are beautiful creatures. Regal and calm. They’re very low maintenance, sleeping 18 hours a day. They prefer walking and will get out and run sometimes. You have to remember that, for the most part, many of them are retired athletes.

Track life is hard. They’re trained from youth to race, often kenneled and rarely socialized like normal dogs. They’re retired between three and five years old, when they’re no longer competitive. We were lucky. Bella was a runt— a full head shorter than most greyhounds.

A friend of ours spotted her at a greyhound adoption event in Portland. She was cocky, stout, her ears didn’t lay flat like most greyhounds, she walked like street tuff, and she was young. Eighteen months. He couldn’t keep her because the condo he lived in changed pet ownership rules and asked if we could put her up until he found a new place. He never did.

She remained a confident, goofy 18-month old puppy. Bella was afraid of heights, so she never jumped up on the couch. It’s a good thing because I don’t think I could’ve survived if her farts were any closer. She loved a Brooklyn accent for whatever reason. And most of all, she loved the ladies. And Moltz. (Which makes sense.)

After the news of her cancer, after the questions and the crying, Doreen and I vowed to spoil the shit out of her. We introduced her to Thai, Greek, and Chinese food. Doreen made meatballs for her and fed her boiled eggs. I’d slip her bacon and grease and we discovered that she enjoyed whiskey.

- - -

Her last day, I took her on a walk. She was slow and limping but in such high spirits. She loved her walks. At the park — the half way point— she skipped up, tongue lolling about and breathing heavy. The cancer was in her lungs and she was tired.

“You cool? Yeah?” She asked, hobbling ahead a bit, pausing briefly to shake like an athlete cooling down.

“Great. Let’s get back home and feed me.”