Rusty
A donation was made in memory of Rusty by the doctors and staff at Valley Veterinary Clinic on Jan 28, 2022.
As much as we loved Rusty, he loved us more.
He wanted to be with us, on our laps, under our covers, in our shirts. He was needy. He needed his family. He would drive us nuts, literally walking under our feet tripping us and we’d shoo him away. He was undeterred.
He was gentle with everyone: adults, kids, other dogs. When we would meet strangers walking, they’d ask, ‘is he friendly’. Sometimes I’d respond that I was more likely to bite than he was. Small dogs would bark — like they do — and he’d just tuck his tail in silence.
He was smart. At our old house, if I put him outside and didn’t lock the sliding-glass door, he’d get on his back legs and push the door open with his front paw from the handle.
He was not tough. He was afraid of the Crockpot because of the gentle bumping noise the lid made when steam escaped; champagne bottles scared him because of the sound of a cork being popped. I didn’t clip his nails; if he broke one, he’d hop around like a three-legged dog for a few hours.
I was inappropriately proud of him. I liked to boast about his sleek, sexy bod and unlimited aerobic capacity. If anyone mentioned he looked older, I’d deny it and point to how fast he could still run, how he hadn’t lost his sex appeal.
He was expressive. He made funny human-like faces. He grunted and sighed a lot, trying to get perfectly situated on a fleece blanket on the couch or jockeying for space in bed. He looked funny when he pooped with this long legs shaking as he strained.
Most nights, he’d tow me to the park on my skateboard. We went fast. I don’t think I’ve ever seen another dog pull a human on a skateboard like Rusty did. I fell a couple times but it was never his fault. I’d throw his glow ball in the dark empty park and listen to podcasts as he retrieved. It was peaceful.
He’s the only dog I’ve ever had. He was special to our family.
He wanted to be with us, on our laps, under our covers, in our shirts. He was needy. He needed his family. He would drive us nuts, literally walking under our feet tripping us and we’d shoo him away. He was undeterred.
He was gentle with everyone: adults, kids, other dogs. When we would meet strangers walking, they’d ask, ‘is he friendly’. Sometimes I’d respond that I was more likely to bite than he was. Small dogs would bark — like they do — and he’d just tuck his tail in silence.
He was smart. At our old house, if I put him outside and didn’t lock the sliding-glass door, he’d get on his back legs and push the door open with his front paw from the handle.
He was not tough. He was afraid of the Crockpot because of the gentle bumping noise the lid made when steam escaped; champagne bottles scared him because of the sound of a cork being popped. I didn’t clip his nails; if he broke one, he’d hop around like a three-legged dog for a few hours.
I was inappropriately proud of him. I liked to boast about his sleek, sexy bod and unlimited aerobic capacity. If anyone mentioned he looked older, I’d deny it and point to how fast he could still run, how he hadn’t lost his sex appeal.
He was expressive. He made funny human-like faces. He grunted and sighed a lot, trying to get perfectly situated on a fleece blanket on the couch or jockeying for space in bed. He looked funny when he pooped with this long legs shaking as he strained.
Most nights, he’d tow me to the park on my skateboard. We went fast. I don’t think I’ve ever seen another dog pull a human on a skateboard like Rusty did. I fell a couple times but it was never his fault. I’d throw his glow ball in the dark empty park and listen to podcasts as he retrieved. It was peaceful.
He’s the only dog I’ve ever had. He was special to our family.
