Perceptive readers of this blog know that I have a dog named Archie. Archie's first canine friend was Scruff, the pet of my wife's brother and his family. Scruff was a springer spaniel. While the family loved him, Scruff spent most summers at his human grandmother's home about 30 minutes away. Grandma Rosie spoiled the dog - the dog enjoyed eggs and bacon for breakfast, got kiddie meals at McDonald's and celebrated birthdays.
For the past few months, Scruff was showing signs that he was 15 years old. He was often confused. Scruff visited us a few weeks ago. He was very confused and wandered the house at 3:00 am. When my relatives left, we knew it was likely the last time we sould see Scruff.
Over the Memorial Day weekend, Scruff and his family visited the family cabin in the northwoods. Late in the afternoon, Scruff did not come back from his walk around the property. My relatives spent a couple of hours looking for him. They got in a canoe and went down the river a little ways. The found Scruff on a large rock on the side of a river. It appeared that Scruff had a stroke and just died on the spot without a struggle.
Those of you that have had pets know the sense of loss one feels at times like these. It is comforting to know that Scruff had a good life and died doing what he liked to do.
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