As if these shitty nowadays-times could get even more sad — Leroy, my daughter Hannah’s basset hound/greyhound mix, has passed. Although we’d known awhile the end was near — lingering bad-health issues combined with being well-advanced in age, I guess, caused the scenario to worsen — but knowing before hand don’t soften the blow. In dog-to-human years, he was 79, supposedly just three years older than me.

Despite knowing/accepting the endgame for a couple of weeks, even now, a week later, the event has become a soft-shocker. I still find it hard to believe. Two days ago, I thought I heard him scratching on the back, sliding-glass door to be let in after a potty break, as he always did. Yet for a micro-second… it was as he always ‘does.’

Hannah took that neat photo (at the left) of Leroy on the North Coast at The Ma-‘e’l Dunes beach near Arcata, California, during a visit in December 2016. It was the first time I’d met him.
In the preceding years, we’d become way-familiar with each other, and, until just recently (nearly 5 years), daily walks have been a mainstay, with only rainy weather and me getting a cold or something stopping the outings (even summertime’s triple-digit temps didn’t curtail us).

Leroy was a wonder. He was a complete slobber dog; the floor around the water dish (he shared it with two cats, Penélope and RuPaul) was generally splashed wet — soaked a lot of socks just passing in the vicinity. And on walks (and anytime, really), he’d eat anything; when I mean ‘anything,’ it’s really ‘everything.’
And he could fart — near-instantly make you both choke and go blind from the foul air — and blow chunks if he ate his food too fast, then drank a shitload of water (sometimes he’d make to the backyard, not always), and yet a sweetheart through-and-through.
I’ve tried for a week now to finish this post, and it has been slow going. Although I ‘feel‘ the words, I just can’t seem to type out anything emotional or really anything of substance. Maybe later on, I’ll be able to write in actual sentences how I ‘feel.’
However, for now grief has its own timeline.

In related matters: During the pandemic for about five months or so, I blog-posted a series, “Walking Leroy In The Valley,” about Leroy and me on our daily walks — if you want, read the last one here (click backwards from there to catch the whole series).
I also took pictures, which are in themselves shitty, taken with a shitty camera (read about it here). Please disregard the date stamp — both stupid and depressing.

Here in Leroy’s honor, a few pix from the series:

First, Leroy in pause:

In repose backyard time:

Slowly moving:

Another pause, head up:

Off the Rascal path, amongst trees along the creek:

On the move:

A standstill:

Finally, an afternoon nap:

Leroy — he will be sorely missed …