Rest in peace, Nino.
My dear old loyal dog of nearly 18 years is very old and sick, and is being put to sleep tomorrow morning. He's old, and just so lost. It's inhumane to let him keep going, because he might have a painful accident if we do. It's for the best, even if it feels horrible.
Nino has been through a lot for a little dog. When he was barely 2 years old, he and Goldie (our female dog at the time) were attacked by a German Shepherd. It went for Goldie, but Nino stepped in to protect her, and got the worst of the mauling. He had to have a kidney removed because it was so severely punctured, and the vet thought he wouldn't survive. But he did. Thanks to Mum's nursing training, he made a full recovery, despite forever bearing the scars from the big dog's teeth.
Not even a year later, Mum came to visit me at primary school and Nino managed to sneak out of the car and disappear. I ran down to the local highschool crying my eyes out to try to look for him, and got into a lot of trouble for running away from school. My school was right near the highway, and he disappeared. We thought he must have been stolen, or killed by a passing car. Mum put an ad in the paper every day for a week, "LOST - male 2 year old tan short-coat chihuahua. Scar on left flank and right side. Requires urgent medical care.Child fretting." Just when we'd given up hope, an ad appeared right underneath ours, saying "FOUND - brown male chihuahua. Pining." An elderly family friend read the ad, rang my sister, and when I came home from school that day he ran out of her room and bounded up to me bright-eyed and wagging his tail. It was one of the happiest moments of my life.
There are lots of funny little quirks about Nino. He had a thing for tissues when he was a pup. He used to steal them straight from the box and eat them whole. We didn't find out until he'd poop in the backyard, and it stood up on its end - a partially digested yet completely whole tissue.
He hated his front paws being touched. We used to play the "Wash your paws" game, where we'd say those words and pretend we were going to clean his feet. He'd snap and go crazy. Or we'd say "Rrrrrrroll 'im!" and try to roll him over. Or we'd say "Kiss kiss kiss!" and kiss him on the head, and then he'd spend the next ten minutes writhing around on his blankets trying to wipe your kiss off. It got to the point where all you'd have to do is say "Kiss" and he'd roll around wiping the kiss off preemptively.
There's nothing in the world that Nino wouldn't eat. He really liked liverwurst. It's impossible to make him take his worming tablets - he'd always lick the meat off the outside and spit out the tablet. Clever bastard. When he was a pup my Dad used to call him "Pig" - not only because he had a funny snout, but because he would scoff down anything he could get his jaws on. The breeder we got him from said that even when he was only a few weeks old, she once caught him dragging the enormous food bowl ten times his size away from the other dogs, and tried to back it (rather unsuccessfully) into the small warm gap between the oven and the kitchen cupboard. That's how he got his second name - "Bandito" - the bandit. A warm comfy spot and a shitload of food is all he ever wanted in life.
He was always very loyal, and a very good judge of character. The best. There was a day when he was so displeased with a dodgy tradesman that he latched onto the poor bloke's overalls, and swung there by his teeth while the guy tried to shake him loose. And if ever anyone went to smack me or harm a member of the family, Nino would always come running and avenge his family's attack most zealously!
He was alive when Dad was around. Such a long time ago. I can't think of another friend who has been around for that long. He has gone through the same losses as I have - seeing Dad die, Goldie dying, and Nanna passing away... he was Nanna's favourite. They'd sit on her lounge together to watch tv, she'd pat him gingerly on the head and talk to him. She never liked dogs, but he wouldn't take no for an answer and she just couldn't help herself. He always knew when Nan was about to go out without her ever needing to say a word, and he'd resignedly trudge off to his basket in the laundry where she kept him when she wasn't home. She used to say "That dog knows everything I do." He missed her when she died.
There are so many little stories about Nino. Many more than I have recorded here. But I'll always love that little brown dog who used to kiss away my tears when I came home from school crying, and just sit on my lap and look at me with those big brown eyes and somehow let me know that everything would be OK because, if nothing else, we had each other.
To my oldest and most loyal friend, farewell.
Nino Bandito
1st of September 1988 - 15th of February 2006
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