Our dog Mike passed on last week. We'd been expecting it. Eleven years old and not in the best of health, Mike took a sudden turn, and two days later he was dead.
Mike was born in the year the towers fell. He and his brother Mac were dumped near us that spring. They were unusual castaways, a matched pair of hounds, both male, and obviously well nourished and well cared for. When they developed a bad case of demodectic mange as a result of an impaired immune system, the genetic reason for dumping them became apparent. The trips to the vet were expensive, but the mange was cured although the prognoses indicated short lives. That prediction became true for Mac because he had a fondness for escaping the yard, wandering, and playing on the highway.
Stay at home Mike made it eleven years as a yard protector although just bark and presence and never bite. Jehovah Witnesses, unless really devout, would give us a pass. Mike liked playing in water, sniffing small animal trails, and really, really hated going to the vet.
So long Mike.