Le Mort de Barkus

Old Barkus, as in "Barkus is willing" from Dickens' David Copperfield, is dead. The pembroke corgi was very nearly fifteen years old and trouble from the start, but a charming companion for my father through the loss of his wife of 44 years, through the interim before meeting Mary, his partner for nearly ten years, and his move from independent living into a managed care facility. Barkus was my father's favorite companion through these years, surely a member of the family. Old Barkus destroyed furniture, shoes, bedding, underwear. He seldom came when called and often ran the opposite direction. He was wily and wiggley, not the sort of dog that liked stroking. But he was a character. Dad will miss him the most of all. Only a month before, the Manor where Dad stayed had said enough. Barkus was defecating and pissing in the lobby. Dad was unable to control him. He stayed with us for a while, but the city streets were hard on his paw, and nearly crippled him. He move to Dad's ladyfriend's daughter's house, and seemed to be settling in. It is another milestone to pass. Dad's last dog. I am sure he thinks about this. I said, "Well, Dad, now we can get you a turtle or a parakeet." He said, "thanks a lot," but he smiled. I think I wrote it somewhere before: old dogs die.