After a 24 hour period of Winston's health rapidly declining, Chanda and I had him put to sleep last Thursday morning at 8:00 am.  We stayed up with him the two nights before and rubbed him and soothed him-but he let us know that he was in pain and it was time.  We were with him during his passing and it was swift and peaceful.

His was a life any dog would covet.  Thirteen years on Chanda's lap complete with adventures on planes, to the beach, the big city, the snow, and then the life of a retired pug gentleman on the vineyard.  He was a crazy and wild beast in his youth-trying at every moment to gnaw on power cords or eat anything he could get his flat little face around.  Given the chance he would bolt out of doors and run into streets.  The fact that he died a natural death at the age of almost 16 is a miracle of dog husbandry and the great love Chanda has always shown towards her pets.

As Chanda said, Winston has been the only thing she's kept in the last 15+ years, the one constant presence.  When I first (clears throat) spent the night with Chanda, I also spent the night with Winston, and his raspy little snoring kept me up all night.  But I was smitten, and I didn't complain.  Although Winston more than once came between Chanda and me (sometimes I want her lap for myself!), I always gave them their space-his fuzzy weight seemed to comfort and even heal her, and that relationship deserved respect (plus those little peg teeth can do more damage than you'd think!)

Winston has had some close calls:

When we first got the greyhounds Indy and Tiva, Tiva tried to play with Winston and ended up landing on Winston's neck and doing some spinal damage.  Winston was paralyzed for a number of days, and miraculously came back at least 80%.

A few years after that, Winston broke into the cabinets and knocked over a trash can and preceded to devour two entire game hen carcasses still covered in meat-nothing was left-he ate the bones.  (Just think of the damage he could have done if he was  more than 80% recovered!) When we came home he was standing by the trash can, his distended pot belly nearly dragging on the ground.  He was so overstuffed that he couldn't lie down or he'd stop breathing from the pressure, so he stood all night long and panted and whined, and that was a long, long night.

Years of having bulging eyes takes a toll.  Brushed by everything from pant legs to shoes to bushes and other dogs-one of Winston's eyes started slipping a lens and had to be removed.  We were surprised how quickly he recovered with one eye-he was much perkier without the eye pain, and within a  week he had totally adapted to his Cyclopian nature.  To lessen the psychological impact of having an eye removed, we declared that he looked butch and distinguished-like a pirate!  So we started calling him the Pirate Pug.  He thought it was stupid.

Well, Winston: farewell little Snarfle.  You were a cantankerous little bastard, a devoted snuggler, a swirling dervish of destruction and one hell of a little dog.