Saying goodbye to an old friend

Yesterday, I said goodbye to Fergus’s stroller.

Bought by my Mother for her granddoggy soon after we rescued him in 2006 and christened the Fergusmobile by his Paw-Paw, the stroller easily logged thousands of miles during its 14-year-run.

It had been on beaches and up and down mountains in two states. It had done city blocks and country roads.

It had even featured prominently in a heated spousal discussion when I came back from a walk and Martin, who disapproved of a yellow down-filled vest that I wore for warmth and safety because it made me look like “a big bumblebee,” said, “Don’t you think people are staring with that thing on?”

I replied, “I’m a Black woman in New Hampshire pushing a dog in a stroller. I don’t think a yellow vest really matters.”

Fergus loved his ride. He’d walk and do what needed to be done and when either Martin or I would ask, “Uppy?” he’d be on his hind legs ready to be picked up and placed in the Fergusmobile which was equipped with a comfy dog bed and a fleece blankie. In the dead of winter, it was also equipped with a heat pack.

The Fergusmobile came with a plastic cover so it was rainworthy. It came with big wheels so it was hikeworthy. It came with underneath storage and cupholders so it was worthy of food shopping and hydration.

Over time, though, two things happened. 

First, the Fergusmobile was starting to get a bit wobbly. Duct tape, bungee cords and tightening screws were no longer working. Second, Fergus was getting old. The things he enjoyed in his youth weren’t doing it for him anymore. For example, he used to love the car-car. Any mention of going for a ride and he was there. Now, it seemed to terrify him.

Same with the Fergusmobile. He wanted out more than he wanted up. He also wasn’t walking as far. His heart was never the best so when I see he is getting tired, I reach down, cradle him and carry his 11-pound frame the rest of the way. That, he still loves.

And so yesterday, with a heavy heart, I took the Fergusmobile to the town dump.

I was sad because it was a reminder of a gift from my Mother (dead) that had been used by my husband (dead) that had been loved by my little doggy.

I don’t know Fergus's exact age. I figure somewhere in the neighborhood of 16 or 17. But I do know he is slowing down, though we all joke, "He is going to outlive us all!"

I also know that he will live out his remaining days, months or years as he has lived all of his days as an O’Donnell: cared for and loved. That little guy carried me through some very bleak days. I promise to do the same for him.