So this is Beau.
He is a three-year-old super-mutt, technically declared a mix of Miniature Schnauzer and Yorkshire Terrier, but definitely has some wire-haired Dachshund in him as well. Possibly some Jack Russell or other assorted terrier breeds. Also, Ewok.
We don't know that much about his background. He was surrendered to a rural-ish shelter by an owner who could no longer care for him, but volunteered that he came from a home with multiple kids, cats and dogs and got along well with all of them. No evidence of abuse, but he was underweight, lacking vet records, and was shaky on both house and leash training.
A local rescue group took him in a few weeks ago and he's absolutely flourished in foster care. Healthy, well-socialized, and cute as all hell. He knows a pretty good number of commands (sit, stay, come, drop it, get down, no, etc.) so he had some training, once upon a time. The rescue's best guess is that he had owners with the best of intentions who simply got overwhelmed with too many animals. (Beau wasn't their only surrender.)
Beau is his original name...his foster mom tried calling him something different but he wouldn't respond to it. So while Ike REALLY wanted to call our new dog Chewy Fluffy Bony (?), we've decided to stick with Beau. It's what Jason and I have been calling him ever since we fell in love with his picture two weeks ago, so it works. I believe his full name shall be Beau Montgomery Chewbacca Storch. Bobo for short.
We brought him home with caution, space, and TON of good guidance from his foster mom. He's still on-leash full time (in house and in the yard) so he can be quickly brought under control if needed, but other than marking an empty Banana Republic shopping bag as MAH TERRITORAYYYY, he's been a very, very good dog.
The boys love him.
He thinks they're pretty neat too. Especially the small shaggy one who drops lots of food.
He LOVES to play, play, play, play and jump, jump, jump, jump (so many of my pictures literally are just blurry brownish areas with points)...and then the second he's tired out he finds the nearest lap to collapse on for snuggling and kisses.
So far he is a quiet, affectionate, and well-behaved little gentleman who seems awfully happy to be here.
Max took one look at him like, meh, whatever. Beau tried a couple times to go in for some cuddles but Max completely ignored him. Which was really his M.O. with Ceiba up until their last years together.
And on that note (and oh my God, OH MY GOD I can't believe I have to type this motherFUCKING dammit), I hate having to piggy-back such bad news on what was supposed to be the fun puppy-pic post, but alas. This is also happening.
As I very much feared, Max did not take Ceiba's passing and our subsequent trip well. Our pet sitter reported nothing amiss for the first couple days, other than the constipation seemed to be back as there wasn't much poop to scoop, and when we got back we were greeted with his typical MEOW MEOW I AM SO MAD AT YOU MEOW OKAY I'M OVER IT LET'S CUDDLE behavior. But I noticed there were more cans of unused cat food than we were expecting, and then discovered he'd been using our closet as a full-time litter box for a least two or three days. (THAT'S FUN.)
We couldn't entice him to eat much on Wednesday. He ignored his nightly catnip treat. He got up to be sick in the middle of the night and I noticed his back legs were wobbling. Then Thursday he wouldn't eat at all, or leave our bed. (This was all pre-Beau, BTW.)
Last night, we crated Beau outside our room (he did great!!) and spent about an hour solely focused on Max. We gave him a fluid injection and tried to force some medicine in. Jason wanted to rush him to the vet for...even he didn't know. And eventually we came to the terrible, heartbreaking realization that it wasn't just time. It was past time. We'd been so preoccupied with Ceiba's final days (and admittedly unwilling to even consider the possibility that we were also in Max's, soclose sosoon), that the moment had come and gone and we'd missed it. He's 17 and a half damn years old, his kidneys are shot and he's miserable.
He still won't eat, he's skin and bones, he's weak as a newborn kitten, and today even my holding him seems to be making him uncomfortable.
(Last week he was stealing my cheese. Even 36 hours ago he still enjoyed a good beard skritch.)
I like to think that maybe he and Ceiba were holding on for each other, knowing the other was sick, and now that she's gone he's just finally ready to go. Magical thinking, sure. But my brain can only take so much awful reality in a single month.
I called the at-home euthanasia practice this morning, like hi. It's me. Again. Yeah.
It's a weird place to be. We are elated by Beau's presence while dreading Max's departure beyond words. I still miss Ceiba terribly. (And also my dad, who we buried five years ago today, WTF IS WITH THIS MONTH.) I kind of just want everything to stop already with the roller-coaster-ing.
I want to cry when I see Max and then I turn around there's Beau's big wide-open excited face, ridiculous tongue, wagging tail and flip-flopped bat ears, looking at me like HI HI HI IT'S YOU IT'S YOU I LIKE YOU LET'S GO DO STUFF TOGETHER and I practically burst out laughing.
And wow, do we ever need some laughter around here right now.