Goodnight, Sweet Nikki

This evening I planned to write my first post about my recent trip to Costa Rica, but something more important came up: the loss of our beloved family pet, Nikki.

If you regularly read this blog, you may recognize Nikki as the "Interloper" who captured my parents' hearts after the death of my childhood dog. Nikki came into our lives eighteen years ago, when I was a first-year student at Haverford. My parents purchased him from a store, something they had never done before. But Nikki was unlike any dog we'd had before, either.

First off, he was smart. He barked on the "speak" command. He understood "sit," "stay" and "down," and he halfway learned "roll over," although he rarely bothered to get back on his feet. His American Eskimo blood made him a terrible retriever: he'd catch a thrown ball, run away, and chew it for hours.

Second, Nikki was loyal. He and my father were great pals and took walks together several times a day. When Nikki was young, Mom played the role of disciplinarian. Still, she never denied Nikki a piece of cheese, his morning toast or, in the last few months of his life, boiled chicken and white rice.

Third, Nikki was flexible. Mom and Dad moved three times in the last two decades, not counting their annual trek to Florida and Massachusetts and back. Nikki never complained. As long as he had Mom and Dad, he was happy. When he was young, he'd get so excited at the site of my Aunt Midge that he'd urinate on the spot. When I came home from college, I'd chase him so I could watch him run in circles.

Over the years Nikki slowed down, grew more affectionate, barked less often at the sounds of everyday life. Yet even when I saw him several months ago--blind, deaf, barely walking--he magically reawakened at the opening of a refrigerator door. Like all Guglielminos, he never lost his taste for food.

When I close my eyes, I remember Nikki as a young dog, the silky feel of his fluffy white hair, his winsome face propped on my knee, looking up at me during dinner with those penetrant eyes that seemed to ask, "Can't you drop a little for me?"

I wish I could find the words to comfort my parents, but I know from experience that everything sounds empty. All I can say is, I love them, the pain will lessen with time and, when they're ready, they can love again.