By all accounts, our dog, Snacks, is not a good boy.
Sure, he showed signs of being a prodigy early on in life. He was the top student at obedience school. The instructor frequently turned to Snacks to model expected behaviors (Snacks would do anything required of him so long as cheese was involved). Brad and I would swap secret, demure smiles with each other as Snacks sat, spun, rolled, and trotted through the obstacle course while the rest of his cohort struggled. Like all smug new parents, we thought OUR puppy was perfection.
Snacks peaked early though.
For all his youthful promise, by adolescence those successes in puppy school were just a memory.
For one, there is the barking. Loud and incessant at anything he deems unacceptable: Delivery people, motorcycles, whoever is at the front door, that dog that walks by the house at the same time every day.
And at squirrels. Squirrels and their devil-may-care attitude and penchant for traipsing across the yard, springing along fence lines and darting up trees. Everything about them seems to irritate Snacks and, because he is not one to suffer his irritation in silence, everyone is alerted to them. They are a menace. And Snacks has always made it his duty to attempt total eradication.
The trouble has always been, of course, that the squirrels can climb trees and Snacks is sadly earthbound.
In the span of his life there was only one episode where Snacks found triumph in this arena. I remember the day years and years ago in Pennsylvania when my neighbor knocked on the door and said simply, “he has something.”
I went to the backyard and found Snacks with his back to me horking up an unidentified object. When I approached, he snatched it up and sprinted across the yard, the fluffy tail of the object dangling from his mouth. The sounds of the crunched bones will never fully be erased from my memory.
I am all but certain the squirrel, which I eventually lured him to leave behind with a cheese bribe, was dead when he found it. But the scene was no less grisly.
Snacks was definitely not a good boy on walks. Again, in puppy class, he demonstrated excellent heeling. The leash was always loose. He always attended to the holder of the leash. Had he been purebred, I thought, he’d be Westminster bound.
However, his willingness to walk with a loose leash only lasted as long as the treats. And by the time kids one and two rolled along, it became difficult to manage a stroller and a dog leash and dispensing treats on our afternoon walks. I spent years being dragged around my neighborhood in York by an anxious beagle who was deceptively strong for his size while either pulling a wagon or pushing the station wagon of strollers (the double long by Graco). Years of neighbors commenting “Wow, you’ve got your hands full.” Years of apologizing for his constant barking. On at least one occasion a dog trainer turned his car around in order to hand me his business card.
There was the night, when, inexplicably, he decided he no longer wanted to sleep in the crate he’d gone to bed in for more than a year. First there was whining, then the barking, then me reassuring Brad “it was just for the night,” followed by 12 years of Snacks serving as a 40-pound crossbeam between the two of us in bed.
God forbid he lies on his back for too long- he’ll erupt into a series of sneezes that sends snot flying into the faces of anyone in a 5-foot range. And don’t leave your feet exposed on a summer night unless you want them to be bathed by his warm tongue for hours on end.
Snacks has also been known to give himself some time to explore off leash.
In Pennsylvania, he would periodically dart out the front door and bound between houses to a bird feeder set up several houses down. I’d have to chase him, praying Lily and Jovie- then toddlers- would stay put, and round him up back into the yard.
In Virginia, he ran off one night. Brad drove around the neighborhood searching for him with no luck. So I grabbed a bowl of kibble and set off on our regular walk route. I was 8 months pregnant with Annie, waddling up a street at midnight calling for him. At one point I thought I saw him in the distance in the middle of the road. I called and called, rattling the dog food and he just stared at me, unmoving. It was only when I got closer that I realized it wasn’t Snacks, but a fox, no doubt wondering what the weird bi-pedals were up to now. When I returned home feeling foolish, out of breath, and needing to pee, Snacks was sitting on the stoop as if nothing were amiss.
Snacks has never taken to car rides.
There is always a lot of panting and whining and more barking. All the barking in an enclosed space. And the insistence that he should be the co-pilot. In his mind on road trips, we should be letting Jesus take the wheel. And by Jesus, Snacks means himself. And by taking the wheel, he means breathing hot dog breath into the ears of front seat passengers while also demanding constant reassuring pets. As you can imagine, we very much look forward to the five-hour car trips to visit grandparents. Mercifully, they always greet us with wine. Or something stronger depending on the amount of dog hair covering my person and the level of murderous rage in my eyes.
Snacks rarely wins pet of the month. Maybe never. He has no respect for boundaries or personal space. Whenever Lily is upset, he shoves his nose in her face, licking her until she starts giggling. When family and friends stop by he sidles up next to them begging for pets and when they comply, he rewards them by jumping next to them on the couch, and shoving his head under their necks while surreptitiously attempting to shove his tongue into their mouths. He demands snuggles and pets. And only HE decides when the snuggles and pets are over. If your hand stopped scratching, he flips his nose under to put it back to work.
During family movie nights, we’ll all settle on the couch. As soon as Brad or I get up to grab something from the kitchen, Snacks seizes the opportunity to take our spot. When we return to the living room, he acts as if he’d been there the whole time. That it was HIS rightful place and he’d grumble like a four-legged Karen if anyone tried to move him. So Brad would end up sitting on the floor.
The back cushion on the loveseat, his designated nap spot by the front window, is permanently flattened.
Last year, he went through a period of time where he suffered butt struggles (this is the technical term, look it up). Whenever he was anxious or surprised (which was frequently) he’d express his anal glands – leaving small, but pungent rings of secretion that smelled of rotten fish, fecal matter, and death. His day-to-day gaseousness is only slightly more bearable.
But where Snacks really failed to be a good boy is in the presence of food. Despite his name and his beagle heritage, we underestimated just how big of an impact food would have on his life. The word “obsessed” doesn’t quite capture his feelings toward food. Snacks both loves food and is addicted to it.
His adoration is wide and indiscriminate. Kibble? Sure, he could go for some kibble. Cat food? Bring it. Cat puke? Sure, why not? Cat poop? A delicacy! The broccoli the toddler threw off the high chair? Consider it gone. The Cheerios spilled between the couch cushions? Who needs a vacuum? The fossilized french fry under the passenger side seat? Hidden treasure! Crayons? Rainbows treats! Birdseed left out for hungry woodland creatures in the winter? Yummy wee nibbly bits! The baby mitten mom left on the floor? Flavorless, but filling. That same mitten barfed up in the backyard? Seasoned to perfection, ready to be re-eaten!
Snacks has always been excellent at flushing out hidden foodstuffs or food-esque stuffs. But where he really excelled was stalking unattended munchies and meals and swiping them before anyone realized he’d even seen them. In his 13 years, Snacks has consumed a Dominoes Franchise-worth of pizza. He’s stolen multitudes of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, hamburgers, and muffins. He is the Great White of the suburbs. Always ravenous, always scanning for his next meal. He might be dead asleep in the next room one minute and if he hears the sound of a fork on a plate and you aren’t protecting your meal like a mantaling hawk, it’s probably already too late.
At a cookout, he once deftly removed an entire hamburger from my mom’s plate leaving the bun and toppings in-tact, gaslighting her into believing maybe she had never gotten a hamburger at all.
We warn guests as soon as they arrive in the house that he will steal your food. We recommend they push anything they hope to consume to the center of the table and the back of the counter. We apologize profusely before he even takes his first nibble. It’s never a matter of if he’s going to thieve, but when. Needless to say, we are much sought after hosts.
Snacks is not a good boy.
This is fact.
And yet, I must have a thing for bad boys, because the moment the volunteer at the York County SPCA put a rolly, wrinkled 8-week-old Snacks into my arms, I was smitten.
For all of Snacks’s faults. His less than stellar behavior record, our family has loved him unconditionally. And he has loved us right back. Dogs leave no room for question on this matter. He is ours and we are his. No less a member of our weird little family than Brad or me or Lily or Jovie or Annie or Pretzel or Peanut Butter. We are a unit. Dysfunctional, sure. But corded together by our shared time on this plane.
Which is why this next part is so, so hard.
Because Snacks is in pain. No one feels safe to pet him without getting nipped. Because his back legs are failing, same for his vision and his hearing. From late afternoon to bedtime he barks and barks seemingly without cause- the vet thinks it’s the result of canine dementia.
He’s not himself. He doesn’t play with his favorite squeaky ball anymore. He can’t go on walks. He can’t jump up on the couch to rest his head against our chests. He doesn’t roll over for belly rubs or back into us for butt scratches. He doesn’t chase the cats or bark at squirrels. Our meals are safe from his prowling. He’s stopped eating dog food. The pain medication is no longer enough to keep him comfortable.
Our lives have carried on around him for months, the endless whir of activity. And he has slowly been slipping away.
Today we are going to let him go. It is devastating. For nearly 14 years, despite all his faults, he has given us delight and affection amidst the chaos.
As always, my sister Laura encapsulates it best:
“He will forever live in my heart… his joyous greetings and barks and relentless .. snacksness… he has been such a bright light … the licks.. so many licks and so much snacks in my lap. He has been blessed with a good life Sue. He definitely has . The love on its own …
Please tell him he has always made life bigger and more fun.. even when he was being an ass. Lol. Tell him we will keep an eye out for dangerous neighbors and nefarious squirrels and sneaky cats.”
Snacks is not a good boy.
He is the best boy.
And we will miss him every day.
Rest easy Snacks. One thing is for sure, he knew he was loved immensely.
Positive vibes to the Jennings Family