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I just lost my little dog, Swiffer. He was 17 days short of turning 17 years old.
Swiffer started out as my grand dog, adopted at eight weeks of age by my son and his girlfriend.
As time went on, my son and wife added two more dogs and two daughters to their household.
Swiffer became odd one out in their lives, and they wanted to place him someplace where he could be loved. I could not face the thought of him not being in our family, so it was a no brainer to step in and become his second adoptive mother.
I owned a premium cigar store in Lilydale and Swiffer became the store’s mascot. He loved going down there and hanging out with everyone. When he would get groomed, the groomer always sent him home with a bandana that I would leave on him as I thought it enhanced his cuteness.
Being a cigar store and lounge, the business attracted mostly men. The jokes were incessant and masculine in content. They would tease me about how I was taking Swiffer’s masculinity away by making him wear cute “necklaces” that would make him look so feminine.
One of the guys named Jorge started calling him LGD. That stood for “Little Gay Dog.” Of course, the title stuck, and jokes were frequent and many about Perfect Ash’s new mascot.
Swiffer, in addition to being the brunt of many jokes, was photographed by a customer who eventually I hired to be one of my employees. These photos have always been special to me and have become more so now that Swiffer is no longer here.
The photographer is Robert Wagner. This is not the same Robert Wagner of Hollywood, rather a Robert Wagner that is a remarkable photographer and friend. He is a creative one and put together a mock magazine cover that still makes me chuckle.
The first dog we owned was a gorgeous English Springer Spaniel named Bailey. She came from champion hunting dog lines that could be traced back to the British royal family. She was a liver and white beauty, smart as they come and at once became my baby.
Unfortunately, she passed when she was just eight years old.
We believe she was poisoned by ethylene glycol and died of liver failure. She was extremely sick and had to be euthanized.
After Bailey was gone, I promised myself I would never let myself get attached to another dog but then entered Swiffer. He broke the pact I made with myself that I would not, could not and did not want another dog. I did not want the disruption nor make the time it took to have a dog, but I went against every self-argument when I looked at his cute little face. I took him in, and he was now mine to love and care for until death parted us.
I had fallen in love with him when I laid eyes on him at eight weeks of age. He was a fluffy little one and he got his name by accident. My son and his girlfriend were vacillating on what his name should be when they were sitting at the kitchen table, and I was about to start cleaning. I took out the Swiffer brand dusting wand and went to retrieve a new pad from the box which was empty. Jokingly, I asked them if I could use their puppy to dust my mini blinds. I could simply insert the wand into his backside.
We laughed and they looked at him and said, “Swiffer! That is his name!”
Throughout the years, Swiffer became my sidekick, and I was his person. He was always so excited to greet me faithfully by the door awaiting my returns.
I had so many names for this little guy. I would call him Swiffer, Swiffy, Tee-Tee because my first granddaughter could not say Swiffy and that is what came out. He answered to Big Love, Tee, Stud, Lovey, Mister-Mister, Swiffer WetJet, and Turd Boy (don’t judge).
He and I left the Twin Cities and moved to Ely after a painful divorce. I suffered from panic attacks and unimaginable bouts of tears and heartache. This sweet little boy would comfort me, lick my tears, and just sit by me - a silent companion like no other I ever had.
He would put his paw on me with a soft look that was humanlike. He knew how to soothe my pain without words or any chance that betrayal would be a possibility.
When I would write my columns, he would lay down by my chair and sleep while I tapped away on my MacBook. When I would stop typing, he would raise his head to make sure I was still there to protect me from whatever might break into the house.
Swiffer did not bark much. I trained him to be like that. To me, nothing is more annoying than small yapping dogs that bark at every little thing. He, however, was a protector of his kingdom.
His favorite thing to do was to sit on the top step of my front porch and watch who came and went at Holiday/Circle K.
If someone walked by the house, he would stand up, go down to the sidewalk and bark at the might-be-a-robber walking or riding a bike. Scooters would send him over the edge, and he would be extra boisterous warning the maybe killer of his presence as this house protector.
I would chuckle and think of the lion in the Wizard of Oz when asked, “What about a hippopotamus?” His answer, “I’ll thrash him top to bottomus!”
Swiffer weighed about 14 pounds soaking wet, so he was not huge in stature, but that certainly did not stop him from being as protective as any large breed dog that would cross his path. He truly was my stand-alone security detail.
Swiffer got his point across when he needed something. If he wanted to go out, he would look at me, snort like a sneeze and walk to the door. If I did not acknowledge him, he would scratch at the door and snort again. If I still did not respond, he resorted to a low grumble that made me take notice.
Bedtime came early for Swiffer. He was not happy sitting in the living room. He would put into play the same method as wanting to go outside. He would obnoxiously snort, walk into the bedroom, return, sit facing me and snort. The snorts would turn into an adorable guttural rumble.
He would continually stare at me until I had no choice but to shut off the TV and retire to the bedroom.
Once on the bed, he would arrange all his stuffies, chew on one for a little while before he circled twice and dropped down. Within a couple minutes, all four of his little legs were in the air and all I heard was snoring.
This dog lived a great life that was filled with treats galore. The last few months of life he existed on dog treats and people food.
Since he was half Shih Tzu (and half Maltese), he was a finicky little one. He loved the broasted chicken from Zup’s and their world-famous Polish sausage.
Since he made it to the ripe old age of 119 in human years, I lavished him with his favorite foods.
Swiffer loved everyone he met. He loved his walks and would pee on everything and left a silent, “Swiffer was here,” mark. Never once did he run out of pee on any walk. You would think he carried a five-gallon camelback with him.
He loved going to the groomer. Special thanks to Brenda Sommers Cudd of Canine Design in Ely. I included photos she took from the last time she groomed Swiff. He would have the same reaction when he would go to Ely Veterinary Clinic. At both places, he could not wait to get out of the car and go in where he would smell all the pets that visited there before him.
When your pet is on the doorstep of death, you go through so much panic. Should you bring him in and have him put to sleep?
Do you let nature takes its course and let them die on their own? So much agony and pain to sit by and watch helplessly. I never had an old dog, and I asked friends who had been there before, and they said you will know when they are ready, and the dog will make that decision for you.
Swiffy made the decision himself, but it was in the wee hours of the night, on a weekend and the vet’s office was closed.
He got worse during the night as I watched him suffer to take each breath. It was excruciating to not do anything except let nature take its course. The morning of Jan.
5, he fought to breathe. I had him in bed with me, which was his favorite place, surrounded by his menagerie of stuffed animals. He started to stiffen, barked, and let out a few wails as he took his last breath and his body became still.
I could tell he was in terrible pain, and I sobbed at what he was going through. I looked at the clock and it was 3:45 a.m. I gave thanks to God for ending his suffering.
I took exceptional care to wrap him in his favorite blanket and tucked in his two favorite stuffies and at 8 a.m., I called the emergency number of the Ely Veterinary Clinic and left a message. I did not know what else to do and dreaded the thought of putting Swiff out in a cold car in my garage. A brief time later, Dr.
Kristine called me back. She was attending to an emergency at the clinic and would be able to meet us to take Swiffer’s body.
When we got to the parking lot, I texted Dr. Kristine and she came outside to greet us. As we said our goodbyes to our sweet little boy, she stood by offering condolences and met our tears with hers. We got hugs from this sweet young doctor and that made it easier to place our loved boy in her arms.
We are so fortunate to have a wonderful vet clinic in our town.
This place is filled with hearts bigger than ever to help us take care of our pets from adoption through end of life. Special thanks to Dr. Kristine, Dr. Chip, Hailey and all the wonderful people who work at the Ely Vet Clinic. They truly are angels on earth.
We take in these sweet little beings and fall in love quickly and wholeheartedly. They should come with a warning label that is tattooed on their bellies that says, “Warning: High possibility of becoming a human slave. Contents have high probability of love overflow. Heartbreak is possible and replacement is optional. Contents are good for one’s health but losing them can be detrimental.
This model comes with no guarantees, however, is fully equipped to lick you unremittingly, love without exception and drive you crazy and happy at the same time. Proceed with caution and love unconditionally.”
Our animals are truly gifts from God. Unfortunately, many have forgotten who gave us these gifts from heaven. Goodness, warmth, peace, and unfaltering love come as a package deal with these astonishing four-legged creatures. I am not replacing Swiffer at this time of my life, but I still and always have had Jesus.
If Swiffer would have come with a warning label, I would have ignored it. It has only been a little over a week and I miss him so much. I feel him in the house even though I know he is gone.
My sweet friend Janet told me last week that there is a thin veil between those who are gone and we who are left behind. A veil is a soft divide. I like the thought of a softness between Swiffer and me because death is hard and cold.
A soft veil is a comfort. Yes, I will just hang with that thought for now – it is just what I needed.
