Rest In Peace, Beloved P.J.

We lost our beloved, elderly dachshund, P.J., this morning.  She had been failing for some time now, and she passed away peacefully and quickly while cradled in my arms, which was a mercy and a blessing for all of us.

P.J. was the puppy of our first dachshund, Tasha -- one of five in Tasha's only litter of puppies -- and has been in our family for more than 15 years.  I was the first to hold her when she was born, and the last to hold her as she was passing.

It seems fitting, somehow, that life should have willed it to be so.

P.J. was a little ball of furry love from the moment she opened her little puppy eyes, all ears and tail and not much else to her skinny little wiener dog puppy self.  She was the runt of the litter, but kept coming over to sigh happily and snuggle into my lap for a nap, and thus it was truly she who chose us at the start of it all.  How could you not pick a dog who wanted to be yours so badly?

When we were going through all of our fertility hell, P.J. was always there with a nuzzle and a warm comforting lick when things were the most dark and difficult.  When we finally got pregnant, and then I almost miscarried with The Peanut at 2 months and was put on strict bed rest, P.J. laid on the bed with me all day long, napping when I napped, comforting when I cried, and loving me as much as she thought I needed it, curling up against my softly swelling belly to give me and the child within whatever comfort her tiny body could muster for us.

She was my rock through all of it, and I loved her fiercely for it.


She was my baby, when for all the world we thought we might never have a child of our own.   And we were actually a little worried that there might be jealousy once The Peanut arrived, but it was needless worry.

She rejoiced with us when The Peanut was born, and P.J. frolicked and fussed over the baby as if she were her own puppy.  I jokingly called her Nana (like the pooch from Peter Pan, although a far, far smaller version) because I couldn't even change a diaper without her checking to see if things were being done comfortably for the wee one.

The last couple of years had not been kind to our pooch:  getting old is not for sissies, even for much loved pooches, but she tried to bear up under the creaky joints and ever-increasing and disturbing-for-her-fastidious-self-image incontinence with as much dignity as her tiny self could muster.  But, in the end, age caught up with her as it will for all of us.

She will be missed, as she was loved, fiercely by all of us.  She was a queen of doggies, and takes a piece of my heart with her today and always.

Farewell, my sweet P.J.