I've tried not to be sad, Chon. It's difficult, though, especially whenever I look at something that belonged to you: your dinner bowl (always your most treasured possession), your pink collar (which you tolerated), your Elizabethan collar (I know you probably wish that I would burn the thing—you hated it so much), your protective boot (you'd probably want it right beside the Elizabethan collar on the burning embers), the chocolate fur that I always refer to as the "tumbleweeds" (there will probably always be some remnant of those embedded in the rug!).
I'm not writing you a poem—you were never one to appreciate the finer arts like poetry and music (you made that perfectly clear when as a puppy, you deposited your "critique" on a record album, after, of course, tearing its cover to shreds). Besides, poetry has never been one of my strong areas, so I'll spare your memory the slander! Despite your refreshing candor, you were crafty at times. I'll always remember the night (you were about 2 years old then) when I was working late on a college paper and left the doily containing the Entenmann's chocolate chip cookies on my desk by the computer while I got a glass of milk. You would have gotten away with the crime—I was so tired that for a minute I actually believed that I had forgotten eating them. Leaving the empty doily behind on the desk undisturbed was pure genius. But, alas, even the cleverest mastermind makes mistakes…you left a tell-tale chocolate chip on the floor which became visible when you got up to leave the room.
I'll miss those Sunday morning drives to Dunkin Donuts with you riding shot-gun. I'll miss hearing your indignant barks while the other Labbies are retrieving (somehow by the end of the retrieving session, though, you always ended up with the coveted bumper). In truth, though, Chon, you never did live up to the "water dog" image. Your frantic paddling always made it appear that you were desperately trying to walk on the water, while your whistling gasps sounded to my ears like, "help me…help me…help me…"
I know you always considered yourself special—the only chocolate Lab in our pack. You know, you were right, you are special and they'll never be anyone who will ever take your place in my heart. You have been a good friend and I will miss you. I'm sorry you had to make this journey alone, but I know that you'll be waiting for me at Rainbow Bridge . Perhaps that's why our canine companions must leave us all too soon…so that they will be waiting for us and guide us when it is time to make our own journey into the unknown. Until then, Chon, you'll live in my memories....
All My Love, Pam
Chani was the runt in a litter of 7 puppies; 6 girls and 1 boy. I was orginally interested in purchasing her brother a chunky, heavy-boned chocolate male, however, a tiny female puppy immediately caught my attention when she pranced into the room, waltzed right up to her brother who was nearly twice her size, yanked a toy right out of his mouth, and then pranced away. "I want that one!" I exclaimed. "She's small but tough." And, boy, did she have attitude, as I later came to discover. She was stubborn and had a mind of her own. In fact, Chani was the puppy I described in the "Choosing a Labrador" section. At the one and only puppy match that Chani entered, she took Best of Breed Puppy and went on to take a Group 3. Chani was spayed at 8 months; she had only reached a height of about 19 inches at the shoulder and I didn't want to risk breeding complications. Despite an OFA report of excellent at 2 years of age, Chani developed severe degenerative joint disease. True to her nature, though, my chocolate girl was always fiesty and playful.
'Copyright 1996, 1997 Pamela A. Davol'