Today, at 19 years old, Dinky was put down, due to his massively failing health. I mean, hell, 19 years old is an incredibly good age for a dog to reach, even one of his size (A quick look on Wikipedia puts him at about 100 in dog years). But then again, Dinky always was a bit of a unique and special dog.
Like I said, Dinky was born just before my fifth birthday and, using the logic of a preschooler, decided that meant that he was somehow my dog. He was the runt of his litter, the rest were sold, and we decided he needed a small name to match that (In contrast with his older brother, Hercules, who was also the runt of his litter but needed a big name to counter that. Herky passed away, I believe, when I was about 18). I suppose it made sense at the time.Like I also said, dogs aren't just toys or inanimate objects. Dinky had feelings, and he was a close companion of mine. He knew when I needed to be cheered up, I knew when he decided he wanted pats (Mostly because he'd roll over on his back and make patting motions with his paws, or scratch at my leg until I patted him). But he was always willing to sit on my lap and cuddle with me. He spent most nights sleeping at the end of my bed, and when I used to do a paper run, he'd come with me and usually wind up getting pats from the people up early enough to see me. Sometimes, he got bullied by bigger, angrier dogs that lived in houses near my route, but I do recall one time, there was one particularly angry dog that always barked at him and he wouldn't go near that place. Until one day, he decided he'd had enough, walked up to the dog and peed on its nose.
RIP Dinky (9/9/1992 - 30/9/2011). You were a great dog and I could never have another like you.
Peed on his nose?? Dinky was awesome and I never even met him in person.
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