A Top Shelf Dog

I fell in love when I first saw your pic on Facebook.

That sweet face and those dark eyes had me, but I should have known you were trouble. Looks can be deceiving, as I would soon learn.

You were a wild man from the start, fast and loud, barking and bounding through the living room of your foster mom’s house to greet us. You barely held still long enough for us to scratch your ears or pet you. Instead, you were intent on giving us slobbery kisses and jumping all over us before you were attacked by a case of the zoomies that sent you careening into a clothes rack in another room, causing the entire rack to crash to the floor.

Despite that crazy first meeting, for some reason we decided to welcome you into our family and name you Patches.

When we brought your special brand of chaos into our home, we had no idea what the next 14 years would bring. 

You grew up with our little girl, who had just turned 3 a few weeks before you came to live with us. I have countless photos of the two of you snuggled on the couch, in her bed, and laying on the floor. 

She was sick quite often when she was younger, and you seemed to suddenly transform, turning off your wild instincts and becoming the perfect, calm, comforting snuggle buddy she needed to help her feel better.

You taught us so much – about patience, tolerance, responsibility, and did I mention patience? Whether it was trash straight from the can, a dollar bill left too close to the edge of the counter, or a lip balm in the pocket of a purse or jacket casually tossed aside, you managed to find it and run with glee to your hiding spot behind the couch. You knew from experience that no matter how much we stretched and reached down into the space between the couch and the wall, we just couldn’t quite reach you. You would shift your eyes upwards to look at us the whole time you were happily chomping down on whatever contraband you had managed to sneak away with.

You never really played with toys, other than long enough to chew the squeaker out of them or to shred them into unrecognizable strings of fabric. Instead, you preferred chewing on whatever else you could find.

Oh, the chewing. 

It wasn’t just small things that were left lying around. Over the course of your lifetime, we decided you must have been part goat. You ate dryer lint, a sock, parts of blankets or towels you had chewed off, various toys, an entire pencil (all that was left was the little metal ring that holds the eraser), game and puzzle pieces, the outer lining of a storage bench, and more than your fair share of “people food” you managed to snatch when no one was looking. You had a special affinity for eating poop (your own or whatever other animal’s you happened to find in the grass), and you once showed your displeasure by chewing a huge chunk of wood off the doorframe when I went into the bathroom and (heaven forbid!) closed the door, leaving you in the hallway alone.

Your hyperactive energy level was more than we could handle, so about a year after you came to live with us, we brought home a tiny little furry brother for you. He was the opposite of you in virtually every sense of the word, but he helped keep you from getting bored and also saved our sanity in the process.

Despite the fact that you could probably have snapped him in half, you had an uncanny ability to know when to back off and play gently with him. You never showed food aggression or bullied him, and the two of you became inseparable.

In your younger years, you loved playing tug of war with him, but you never took advantage of the fact that you outweighed him by a good 30 pounds.

The sight of the two of you simultaneously howling at sirens or running around the house when the zoomies took hold of you was the source of much amusement in our house over the years.

And then there were the unforgettable moments, the stories that, despite the passage of time, make me laugh out loud to this day. Like the time you were whimpering and seemed to be in pain, barely able to stand up on your own, and we were terrified, convinced there was a tumor or internal bleeding or some other traumatic medical emergency. We rushed you to the vet, only to learn after multiple tests, an expensive vet bill, and much worry that you were just constipated.

You somehow learned to beg, without us teaching you that very effective trick. When you wanted something, you would sit up on your haunches, front paws pawing at the air in front of you, often with your head tilted slightly to the side, just to get that extra level of cuteness in.

And who could forget the time you were sprayed by a skunk? Unfortunately, that memorable experience happened more than once.

Your awkward sleeping positions were legendary. 

It’s like you refused to sleep in a normal position or in the expensive dog beds we bought you just out of spite. I sometimes think it was a part of your humble nature. You were just a regular old hound dog, never putting on airs or thinking you deserved more. You were content with the simple things in life – chasing squirrels and rabbits in the backyard, barking at anything and everything, and falling asleep wherever you happened to land.

As you grew older and your joints grew stiffer, you spent less time barking and more time just laying around. Your once jet black fur turned silver and your muscular frame grew smaller and more frail. You developed tumors, but your age prevented us from pursuing surgery to remove them. Your eyesight began to fail and you frequently ran into furniture, walls, and tripped over the curb. 

You took it all in stride, though, and got back up every time you were knocked down. There’s a lesson to be learned in that. 

Despite the pain I know you sometimes felt, you still loved life. You enjoyed car rides and walks (although somewhat shorter and slower) right up until the end. You also enjoyed the occasional drop of bourbon dad let you lick from his finger, which led us to give you the nickname Pappy Van Patches in honor of the infamous Pappy Van Winkle bourbon. You, of course, were never able to taste that particular expensive, top shelf brand of bourbon. Then again, you were never a top shelf kind of dog. 

And then, even with twice monthly laser therapy, joint supplements, and various other treatments, you became more and more disoriented and frail until one day you stopped eating and drinking, and we just knew.

We spent a bittersweet afternoon with you, rubbing your ears and sharing memories, laughing through our tears while you slept curled up on a favorite blanket. 

At one point you leaned your head against a wooden table leg and I gently repositioned it onto the soft, folded blanket. True to your nature, you refused the pillow and moved your head right back against the hard, wooden table leg. 

We fed you a few bites of smoked chicken and let you enjoy licking a few drops of bourbon one last time. 

When we got to the vet’s office, we gave you a Hershey’s kiss (because every dog deserves to try chocolate at least once), and then we stroked your fur and said our quiet goodbyes as you slipped away.

It was one of the hardest things, and yet one of the most special. 

Someone once said we don’t deserve dogs, and that’s the truth. Despite the stress, the constant shedding, the vet bills, the destruction of property, the barking, and the stubbornness, you were 100% worth it. 

We didn’t deserve you, but we will never forget you.

In spite of everything, you were a top shelf dog after all.

Patches O’Houlihan Bellamy

November 7, 2010 – February 11, 2025