The Death of Sparky

Sparky was an awful, awful little dog, and I adored him. He died a few weeks ago, here at home. Kenny and I had been napping; Kenny got up first and found Sparky dying on the kitchen floor.

I got up a little later, to find Kenny holding Sparky in his arms, weeping. He looked up and said, “Sparky has died”.

This rotten little dog deserves a noble obituary. He was the Bruce Willis of Chihuahuas. He was handsome and he knew it – shiny black with brown eyebrows and feet, and a blaze of white on his chest. He kept his waist trim, no doubt, with the enthusiastic tail wagging.

He never weighed more than six pounds, but had a bark that would bounce off any hard surface in the house. Its pitch was actually between notes, so it could, and did, make your ears ring. He was not a good host. He would occasionally bite visitors. I assured them he couldn’t do much damage, after all.

The good news is that I never had a moment’s concern that anyone, no matter how motivated, could ever sneak up on me. Or the front door. Or even, for that matter, the park across the street.

His life story is worth telling. When our younger son, Tyler, was 12, he wanted a Chihuahua puppy and was amazed when we actually got him one. A beautiful girl he named Dark Angel, shortened to Angel, who promptly fell in love with Kenny.  (It should be noted that he was similarly smitten.)

Tyler said one day,  “You know, mom, I still don’t have a Chihuahua puppy.” We happened to be in Wal-Mart, and I noticed a postcard ad on the community board for “Ingrid’s Chihuahuas”. We went to see Ingrid, and her Chihuahuas. A memorable meeting in her back yard as a small heard of doggies came up over a small rise, for all the world like mustangs in a western. She had two puppies – a freaked out little brown girl and Sparky, all piss and vinegar. (Literally, it would turn out.)

We didn’t get him then, we were “just looking”. We came home, told Kenny about it and his response was, “I can’t believe you didn’t get one”. That’s it, we’re in the car, back to Ingrid’s, to get Sparky.

We had trouble with the name. Tyler couldn’t come up with anything, I said “Sparky” was the only thing that seemed right to me – so Tyler named him Spartacus and we were off for an ID tag.

Ingrid was a liar. She swore Sparky was only three or four months old, so we’d have plenty of time to have him neutered. He was at least one month older, maybe two. In Dog Years we now had a horny teenager on our hands.

But you know how things go; it’s one thing after another. I meant to get him neutered right away, and I had even made the appointment. But nature was driving this hot rod. And, Angel was a tramp. All she needed was fishnet stockings and a cigarette between her tiny lips. She would wave her tail right in his face. What should we have expected?

Then one morning, about six, Kenny woke me up with a Chihuahua in each hand, stuck together, waving them over my face. “What should we do?” “First,” I said, “Please very carefully set them down before you break something off in there.” Luckily, our vet is a friend. I called him, freaked out about these stuck-together dogs.

Paul, the kind and calm man he is, began to explain to me that they are “tied” and he started telling me way more than I wanted to know about swollen bits and pieces, ending up with the prophetic, “This is usually when the female gets pregnant.”

Sad to say, I didn’t take it all that well. Angel, that strumpet, was, of course pregnant. With four puppies which is a lot for a Chihuahua.

I would swear Sparky was pleased with himself. After the babies were born, he tried to come take a look and Angel would not even let him get close. As a time passed, though, she would let him get closer, until one memorable day when she allowed him to babysit while she took a little break.

I’d never watched puppies develop before, so I don’t know whether this was unusual or not. But Sparky was a good father.

For the next 12 years or so, Sparky did what Chihuahuas everywhere do. He ate, pooped, peed (on everything), and blissfully ignored my lame attempts to teach him anything.

He was a wonderful friend to Tyler. I’d pass by Tyler’s room and he’d be talking things out with Sparky. During your teen years you need a friend.

But his barking escalated during the years when the boys would clomp up and down the bedroom stairs at all hours of the day and night. He’d be asleep on our bed, and then hear big man-boy feet and talking on the stairs, and he would just lose control. He would bark so hard he would actually leave the ground.

An indignant little man, that’s what he was. But he loved to sleep on my lap when we watched TV, or make me hold him while I was working on the computer. At night, he would tunnel under the covers and lay against my legs. He’d be calm and at peace until he heard something – when he would explode in a barking frenzy.

It’s considerably quieter around here now. Angel and their two sons are keeping watch over us. They can bark, too. But how is it that I have a hole in my heart that’s exactly the shape of Sparky?