The Story of a Well-Loved Dog

"All dogs go to heaven, because, unlike people, 

dogs are naturally good, and loving and kind."

 - Annabelle, All Dogs Go to Heaven.

 

Archibald Manchita Tahiti Pedroso Tamagni, “Archie,” was born in March 2003 on a farm in Janesville, Minnesota.  I adopted him on May 18, 2003, two days before my college graduation, and his adoption was one of the only impulse decisions I've ever made, as at the time I believed that a small lap dog would be the perfect companion for the long study hours that I would soon experience in law school.

I quickly learned that Archibald was indeed not a small lap dog. Long and gangly, he resembled a greyhound in a jack russell costume, and exhibited the emotional anxiety and melancholy of his mixed breed's genes.

Archie always wanted to be with Josh or I, and he hated to be alone. Sometimes, when we would leave the house, he would howl as if the world was ending, and then when we later returned, we would find a shoe or a hat or both, destroyed.  When I described these behaviors to an animal psychologist she told me that he suffered severe separation anxiety and would continue to chew on all the things that smelled like us. She suggested some medication.  Instead, Archie went with everywhere with me.

Between 2004 - 2008, I worked as an assistant coach for a local high school track and field team.  Archie loved track practice. As part of the scheduled workout, I would place Archie in a lane, next to an athlete, and have him race against the runner in a 100 meter dash. Standing at the finish line, I would start the race, and Archie would, staying in his lane, sprint to the finish, often toppling me over when he crossed the line.  He never lost a race.

Archie loved to ride in the passenger seat of my red tercel with the window rolled down and his front paws hung over the edge. If another person wanted to ride in the car, he refused to move to the back seat. Instead, he would sit on the person’s lap, and upon exiting the person would always retain a thin coat of his white hair. As a result, I currently store lint rollers in the following places: the car, our bathroom, my office, on top of my dresser, and in the kitchen junk drawer. 

In 2006, Josh and I lived in a San Diego neighborhood called Ocean Beach ("OB").  Archie loved OB.  We lived two blocks away from the OB Dog Beach and the Rob Field park, two places where Archie loved to run.  Josh would often surf at dog beach, just so Archie could play and I could sit on the sand and study. When Josh would paddle out, Archie would run out after him into the surf, and when the water was too high for him to run further, he would bark at Josh to tell him that he was right there, waiting for him.

Sadly, I humiliated Archie at least twice a year, as I required him to wear both Halloween and Christmas attire.  He found the entire ordeal incredibly distasteful.  However, Archie always submitted because he was smart enough to know that he lived a very privileged life, and with this privilege came compromise.  

Archie knew he was spoiled. Once, we left the side gate open and Archie wandered into the front yard.  He immediately ran to the front door and  pawed at it, wanting to be let back inside. He was so loyal and never ran away.

 

When Lola was born in 2009, Archie was not pleased; however, he found himself benefiting from both the numerous neighborhood walks that were necessary to calm the screaming infant as well as the unlimited supply of human food crumbs that were produced by the child.

In September 2012, Archie became suddenly paralyzed in his hind legs. After extensive testing and specialty consultations, he was diagnosed with a rare form of spinal cancer that was incurable and inoperable. We attempted several treatment options, however, Archie’s health and appetite quickly deteriorated.   On the morning of November 5, 2012, Josh cooked a half pound of bacon, and we offered it to Archie hoping he would be able to eat one last time. He did.

As Archie laid in our arms, we told him that we would always love him, that we would always remember the wonderful times we had together.  He was a good dog, and he lived a well-loved life.