We had to say goodbye to Corgan this past Saturday. It was not an easy decision, and one of the hardest things I have ever had to do in my life. I don't think I have cried as hard as I did at the vet in a long time.
She would have been 14 years old this November. I got her the year I started college - 1998 - as a replacement for a cat that I thought had run away, but in reality had been stolen and thrown out of the car by my psycho roommate. This same psycho roommate (who hated cats, evidently) took me to buy a dog to console me for my 'lost' cat. We walked into the pet store and Corgan was the first thing I saw - a chubby, poofy little black fur ball that looked like a bear cub. That was it for me. I had to have her. And so I did.
Ironically, a few weeks later, we got a phone call that someone had found our cat. They had seen our posters and recognized her and...described to us the car that had thrown her out. It was our psycho roommate of course. The cat came home and now we had a pissed-off cat and a puppy. Corgan and Rocket. They quickly became known as 'The Townhouse Drunkards' because of the way they were constantly fighting - Rocket with her claws sunk into Corgan's belly and Corgan rolling over and over trying to get the cat off of her. It was a slow-motion, stumbly, drunken-looking spectacle, and that was them - all day, all night. Corgan used to have this really great habit of dragging our dirty underwear out of the hamper and bringing them downstairs to chew-on when we had company. Nothing like trying to look cool in front of some older fraternity guys and having your poofy puppy come running into the room with a pair of your undies. And then there was the weird habit she developed of pooping in the middle of Jennifer's bed. Not on the floor by the bed - on the bed. Talk about a strange house-training experience.
Eventually, we got evicted from that townhouse (thank you psycho roommate for stealing our rent money every month) and during the time it took for us to find a moving truck and get our parents to Denton to help us move what was left of our stuff, our psycho roommate had decided to leave the townhouse doors open so the animals would run away. The cat took off, of course. Not Corgan. She was rolling around under the tree in our front yard, just a ball of happiness to see us. But we were moving back into the dorm, and they dont let you have bear-cub puppy's in the dorm. So she spent a brief stint at my Aunt Brenda's house, then Nana's, and finally back with us at once we moved into a new apartment.
This was when she developed her penchant for running away. Corgan loved to 'escape'. It wasnt that she wanted to run away forever, she just liked being chased. I can not even count how many times she got out and had us, along with half the apartment complex, chasing her up and down the street. When she was done, she would just plop down on the ground, and that was that. We usually ended up carrying her home. And then the apartment complex management told us we werent allowed to have her, and if we didnt get rid of her, we would be evicted.
Which is how she came to live at Mom and Toms. It was only supposed to be temporary. Mom wouldnt even allow her in the house (shes allergic to her). But Corgan wasnt the kind of dog you could just leave outside or in the garage, and before anyone knew it, she was an indoor dog and every bit a member of their family as me or my brother. She was especially Tom's dog. Every day when he got home from work, he would sing 'Hey, little girl, brush your hair, put on your make-up....' to her as she bark-talked to him. During the summers, when my family spent almost every weekend poolside, Corgan refused to stay in where it was cool. So every weekend, Tom would load up on bags of ice that he would dump into a big pile on the grass for her, and she would just spread out over the ice and wag her tail. Summertime was also when she sported her 'show dog' hair cut - everything but the head, shaved off, and pom-poms on the feet and tails. We would call her Sasha. I remember once I moved back to Arlington, into an apartment where she could live with me, I told Tom I was coming to take her back. Tom looked at me, in all seriousness, and said that if I dared try to take her away from him, he would take me to Judge Judy. She was my dog, but she had become his baby. And she back-talk barked at me as if to say dont even THINK about it, mom.
Oh the bark-talk. Corgan back-talk barked more than any other dog I have ever known. You could have actual arguments with her. I often had friends - who, had met her and become smitten with her - look at me like I was evil when I would complain about my fights with Corgan (which was often - she and I fought alot). But she would argue with you, and talk-back, and bark at you if you werent doing something she wanted you to do. She wasnt a barker in the sense that she yapped at every jogger running by the house they way the schnauzers do. She was a dog who barked because she had something to say. It was a common scene in the kitchen to see Mom trying to cook dinner and Crogan getting under her feet; mom yelling at her and Corgan back-talking until mom stopped what she was doing to give her a treat or pet her or whatever it was Corgan wanted. Mom always threatening to kick her if she didnt shut-up. Corgan and my mom were like a weird human-dog Odd Couple.
Her escape artist reputation reached legendary levels while living with my parents. They had to barricade the back gate with cement blocks, 2x4s, huge ceramic planters....and still she would get out. I remember one time we were all sitting upstairs watching football and I looked out the window and saw a dog...I said 'that's funny - that dog out there looks just like Corgan.' It was Corgan. We all ran downstairs and out the front door. She just stood there wagging her tail waiting for us to get close and them BAM, she took off. had us chasing her up and down the street until she got tired, and she plopped down on the ground. Tom had to carry her home.
Plop was one of her nicknames because of how she would do just that...plop down where ever she was, when ever she felt like it. Middle of the kitchen while you tried to cook. Bottom of the stairs when you were trying to come down them. In front of the back door when you were trying to open it. Middle of the stairs because she didnt feel like making it to the top. But she was fast when she wanted to be - once Tom and I were standing in the backyard and she was plopped down on the patio and then faster than you could blink she was across the yard with a mouse in her mouth. It was like some Discovery Channel Predator type stuff. Corgan was definitely a hunter. And it came out of nowhere. Maybe that was her tactic - act like a blob and then strike light lightening.
She was scared shitless of rainstorms and especially thunder storms. She would cry and bark and shuffle around the house looking for something to hide under. Sometimes it was under the bed. Other times it was in the closet, under neath the clothes on the floor. Once, mom was loading the dishwasher, and Corgan slid underneath the dishwasher door. And there was nothing you could do to console her. Basically, if it was rainy, you just had to accept that you were not going to get any sleep.
She was always underfoot. She was almost ninja-like in the way she could materialize out of thin air underneath your feet and have you crashing down to the floor. I almost died on 3 separate occasions because of her trying to trip me on the stairs. She was intentional about it. And only people who knew her know how true that is - when she tripped you, she meant to. But despite her back-talk barking and her being in the way at the worst times, she was the sweetest, most good natured dog I have ever known in my life. We never really knew what breed she was - all we knew for sure was that she was part chow, maybe part collie, maybe some lab. She was a beautiful, poofy black mutt whose hair got frizzy when it rained and who was shaved during the summers to look like a regal lion-poodle thing. Whatever the combination of breed, the result was a dog that loved you endlessly and was always wagging that messy floofy thing of a tail. I have also never seen a dog that people fell in love with so fast. Even toward the end, when she had trouble walking and her fur was patchy and she had ribs poking out - people would come to our house and just fall over themselves to love on her.
She had no idea that she was too big to be a lap dog. In her prime, she weighed 50 - 55 pounds, and she would scooch up on your lap as if she were one of the schnauzers.
She moved in with me and my family 5 months ago, and quickly became Charley's BFF. Everywhere Charley went (barring upstairs since Corgan's arthritis and long ago stopped her from being able to do stairs) you would hear Charley saying 'Come on, girlfriend!'. She was the first dog Lucy wanted to see each day when we got home, calling for her 'Co-wee'. She and Buddy became instantly close, sleeping side by side, sometimes with their paws overlapping as if they were holding hands. Pistol Pete was just happy to have his sister back, as if the past 10 years she hadnt been somewhere else. I was right back to tripping over her in the kitchen, or flipping out because she had rolled around in the grass and come back in the house with enough dirt and grass and stickers on her to fill a small trash bag. She was back home with us for 5 months, I think, and they were a happy 5 months for all of us.
I was 18 years old when she came into my life for the first time, and 31 when she finally came home to me again. In the almost 14 years that she was with us, I went to college (and dropped out), moved I dont even know how many times, beat drug addiction, met my husband, got married, had a baby, bought my first home, and became a grown-up. And through it all, Corgan was a constant in my life. My mom and Tom used to jokingly call me her 'birth mom' who had given her up for adoption to them. Truthfully, she was everyone's dog. She was Tom's sweetheart, and my nemesis each time I moved back home, she was my mom's weird-other-half dog, and she was my brother's favorite girl who he called his first-born.
She was one of a kind. It hurt me deeply to have to let her go, but in the end, she was in so much pain that to keep her alive for our sake was cruel. I took her for a short walk in the beautiful morning sunshine - only a few houses down because that was as far as she could walk and then we drove her to the vet. She was happy when we got there - not scared. She wagged her tail the whole way. Even as we hugged her goodbye, she was wagging her tail and happy to see the people at the vets. She went peacefully. I exploded in body-wracking sobs and had to run into the parking lot because I it hurt so bad.
It's been hard to mourn her, because part of me still thinks she just at moms house. But Pete and Buddy have been grieving, and their depression reminds me that she is gone and I break down all over again. She was one hell of a dog, and I miss her. I miss her barking at me, and tripping me, and being everyone's favorite, and running up to Tom to be sung to, and getting black hairballs all over the place, and the way she loved you no matter what.
I miss her.
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