I wish I could say that's a picture of Inga, but in truth--I don't have any. I'm not a picture taking person, but that one is pretty damn close to both her image and her attitude. Inga wasn't always my dog--she became my dog, and I became her person. Inga arrived in our household the Christmas my niece Rachel turned twelve. Rachel almost had a fit when they brought in the tiny puppy. Oh, miniature dachsies are tiny. I called Inga a cocktail weenie dog. She had us all in stitches, romping around. She got into an arguement with herself in the sliding mirror door, then bonked her head trying to play with the other puppy. Rachel wanted a German name, so I suggest the name of Colonel Klink's secretary--Inga--and it stuck. So I guess she was a little mine, even back then.
The word character really applied to Inga. She taught herself how to sit up and beg. One day she just started doing it, and that's an accomplishment for a weenie dog--the balance is difficult with that long body and short legs. She was never sick (right up to the last) or injured, but she developed a suspicious limp in her hind leg when she was fussed at, or ordered to go outside. I wasn't living at my Mom's house then, so I only saw Inga when I came to visit. She slept each night with Rachel, burrowed under the covers. I never understood how she did it--I would have thought she'd suffocate. She did that right up to the end. One of the last acts she was capable of was crawling to the foot of the bed and wiggling under the coverlet. Inga grew up. She tried so hard to be boss lady with the other dog and cat, but they pretty much ignored her (both were a lot bigger than she). She was overjoyed when they got a smaller cat, because she then had someone to boss around. It didn't last long. Both animals either succumbed to the highway, or picked up and moved, and Inga was an only dog for a long time. Rachel grew up, graduated, and moved away, but Inga stayed behind with Mom. Mom had gotten separated, and Inga was good company for her. I got sick and moved back in with Mom. I had a bad infection in my leg, and had to spend all day with it propped up, not moving. Inga stayed with me the entire time, plastered against my side--not moving. Every now and then she'd look up at me, her eyes seeming to say that she believed that I held the key to the universe. I got better--some, and Inga was there with me all the long days I was alone while Mom worked. Rachel moved back in for awhile, and for a little while we refered to ourselves (skip this if you're delicate) as an all bitch pack. Rachel moved back out and Mom reunited with my stepfather. Inga became... How shall I put this? Passive-aggressive? She started wetting the floor right in front of his chair. She was banished outside during the daylight hours, unless the weather was bad, but she still slept with me--under the covers. She wasn't too bad a bed companion, except that she was a bed hog, and boy was she hard to shift. She must've studied with the cats about how to go boneless. She'd sometimes dream, woofing in her sleep, legs twitching as she chased something. She had gas--no, make that Gas, capitalized. This meant poots, belches, and tummy gurglings you wouldn't believe. Her tummy gurgled worse than the pipes in a Victorian mansion. It woke me up on occasion. Bad habits? She was a licker. I don't mean of herself or others--she was a dog, it's a given. No, she liked to lick fabric. There were a few times when I'd sit in a wet spot on my bed. Ick. Doggy drool. She was greedy--very greedy--but I guess that's the hound dog in her. She would automatically finish off any food the cats left in the dish. Oh, yes--she ate cat food. We have cats, too, and if we put down both kinds the cats ate the dog food, and the dog ate the cat food, so we started just putting down cat food. I'd read somewhere that a dog can do all right on cat food, but not vice-versa, because cats need different minerals. Cats. Miss Inga loved cats. Well, all except the neighbors, which used to sneak over, eat her food, and chase chickens. But our cats? Heck, she adopted Simon Snicklefritz when he arrived, a pathetic bundle of fur and bones. She couldn't wait for him to get strong enough to play. Luckily by then she'd licked him so much that he'd figured out that she was a friend. They got along splendidly. I almost hurt myself laughing, watching them wrestle and chase in circles. Inga liked it because he was so small that she could boss him. But Simon grew. He got so long-legged that he could just step over her, and he did. But he never got hostile toward her. She'd drag him across the floor by his neck, and he'd just lay there. In the last days, when she was feeling too weak to do much more than eat and lay in the sun, he'd wait till she passed by and paw at her, trying to get her to play with him again. He's going to miss her almost as much as I will Inga was with me all through my last health crisis. There were dark moments of the soul for me, when I thought that I was surely going to die. Inga would look at me with such love, trust and devotion. She was always there for a hug. Don't think I'm sacriligeous, or silly (you do odd things when you despair) but I asked her to pray for me. When I got out of the hospital she was there to greet me with a swinging tail and doggy kisses.*sigh* Time to bite the bullet. I've been talking about her in past tense. She's just been taken to the vet's for a quick and peaceful death. She did so well up untill a few days ago. Yes, she moved more slowly, and she didn't want to play with Simon like before. But she kept a good appetite, she evacuated normally, and she never gave evidence of any pain. She was just getting old. After all, she was almost fourteen--that's over ninety in human years. She'd gone totally gray on the muzzle, and gray hairs were sprouting on other parts of her body. A few days ago she just seemed to lose her enthusiasm for life. She didn't pester me to take her to the bathroom for a drink of water before we went to bed. She didn't gaze at me quite as intently when I ate. She was more still during the night. A couple of days ago she didn't come out from under the covers when I called her. I uncovered her and she looked--odd. The very tip of her tongue was sticking out--and that doesn't look natural on a dog. But after a few moments of stiffness she seemed all right, so she went out on the porch and spent the day laying on the rug I'd crochetted for her. But that evening she moved oh, so slowly. She couldn't stand on her hind legs to put her paws on the bed to make it easier for me to lift her. Something just told me that this was it, and I'd better get prepared. Easier said than done. It was quick. The next day she could barely walk. That night I fixed her milk and bread, so she'd have something soft to eat. I brought her her drink in a plastic bowl and held it for her as we sat on the bed. I started telling her how much I loved her, and how good and special she was. She got weaker. Yesterday I kept her with me the first part of the day, constantly stroking her and talking to her. Around noon I put her on the porch, so she could use the potty. A storm blew up, and when I went to call her, she wasn't there. I tried off and on all day, but she never came. She had to spend the night outside, because there was no way we could find her. It broke my heart. I got up several times during the night and went to the door, calling. She still didn't show up the next morning. I was fearing that she'd crawled off somewhere to die, and we wouldn't even get a chance to bury her. But when my Mom came back from work she found her, covered in mud from being under the house. She'd apparently had a stroke. She couldn't walk more than two or three steps without her legs buckling. Mom bathed her and gave her to me. I wrapped her in my fleece windbreaker and once again started petting and talking to her. It was more urgent now that I knew the end was approaching She slept with me one more time, though I didn't really get any sleep. Every now and then she'd shift minutely, or sigh. This morning she crawled to the foot of the bed and burrowed under the covers one last time. They got a pillow, so that her last trip would be comfortable. My mother brought her to me to say good-bye. I told her I loved her, she was a good dog, that I'd see her in heaven, and that there were going to be a lot of cats there for her to play with--some of whom would be mine. She should tell them I'd sent her. Mom was crying when she carried her out. I didn't really boo-hoo till I heard the door close, and knew she was gone. Then when the truck started up for her last ride, I cried again. I expect to cry a good deal in the coming days. I believe that sometimes God sends us a special animal--one who will give us love, strength, and perhaps teach us a thing or two. Miss Inga was my gift from God. I believe that she had a soul--perhaps not like mine, but a soul nonetheless. She was God's creature, and God doesn't abandon his creatures. I believe I'll meet her again in heaven. Untill then she'll watch over me.
