Tuesday, July 03, 2012

Wrigley Telluride Kaseberg, the First and Last

Here is a list of things you may or may not know about my dear departed Mister Wrigley:


To me I swear he smelled like a big, furry cinnamon oatmeal cookie. 

Not once, not twice, but three times, when he was a puppy, on separate occasions, he made one or more pretty twenty-something women burst into tears at how cute he was. All four or five or six women cupped their mouths and proclaimed in amazement;

 “Oh my god, he is so cute he made me cry.”

After being diagnosed with severe hip dysplasia at age one, Wrigley went on to chase and catch at least one rabbit and one bird. And, when he wanted to, he was an amazing fetcher. Until a couple of years ago, he could jump up on the four-feet-high recycle bins. Until a few months ago he could go on a three mile walk.

When Wrigley was a puppy, I took him to the Torrey Pines dog park and he started playing with an almost identical white yellow lab puppy. When I pointed this resemblance out to his pompous, pipe-smoking dick-bag owner, who claimed to be a horse breeder, the ass-bag literally laughed in my face and scoffed;

“Don’t be silly. His sire (dad) is a champion named Tucker from Broyhill.”

When I got home and looked at Wrigley’s  breeding papers, guess who his daddy was? Tucker from mother effin’ Broyhill.

The next time, when I pointed this out to Sir Pipe-smoker Dick-bag the fourth, he actually said;

“Why, now that you mention it, of course you can see the resemblance.”


The moral? Douche bags will always be douche bags. And Wrigley was royalty.


A month later, Sir Pipe-smoker Dick-bag the fourth told me Tucker from Broyhill would be at the Del Mar dog show, so I took Wrigley to see his dad. From this experience I learned two things: one, Wrigley and his Dad did not care about each other at all, and, two, dog show people are ten times crazier and creepier than in the movie “Best in Show.” One woman screamed at the top of her lungs at me when I went to pet her dog;


“Are you insane? I just had him groomed you a-hole.”


Wrigley loved to ride in the car even though it made him visibly nervous.

Wrigley was a very funny dog. Kasey, bless her heart, was sweet, kind and lovable as she could be, but she was a serious dog. Not funny. Wrigley was hilarious. You could see it in his eyes. Virg has had dogs her entire life and loved them to death. But she swears Wrigley was the funniest dog she ever saw. By a large margin. 

Almost once every year at Christmas,  Wrigley would walk over and, as pretty as you please, pee on the Christmas tree. The first time was when Ann Caroline was four and we heard her yell from the living room;


 “No Wig-ah-wee, nooooooo.”


Wrigley was amazing on the leash. Always on the left and never pulling.

He was amazingly bad to other dogs when on the leash after a lifetime of protecting Kasey. Wrigley would snarl and snap at other dogs.

  In his entire life Wrigley never once growled at a person. You could take a bone away from him or his food and he would wag his tail.


Wrigley honestly thought he could talk to us. You know how kids pretend to talk Chinese and think they actually can? That is what happened with Wrigley. He would imitate our sounds, rarr, err, woorr, orrr, aahhr, and expect a response. Of course we played along and gave him a response, like “Is that right? You don’t say. Oh my goodness. I had no idea.” He would genuinely look pleased at how we were having a nice conversation.


  Wrigley could tell time. At exactly 2:00 pm he wanted a snack and a nap and at 6:30, he wanted to be fed dinner. (Still working on that being-able-to-tell-time-thing with Virg and Ann Caroline)

Wrigley was razor sharp at detecting our moods. He hated it if someone was angry and he would slink away. But he was never able to figure out that a wagging tail would knock over a glass of wine on a coffee table. 


Wrigley could scarf down three cups of dry dog food with water in 30 seconds or less.

Wrigley ate anything and everything. In his poop we found every coin, and most sizes of batteries. He once ate – and pooped out – an entire beach towel. Chew toys - that had on the package they would last for weeks – were gone in one minute.


Wrigley ate our entire wooden deck. This is not a joke. This is not an exaggeration. He ate our entire wooden deck. Or most of it until we had what was left torn up. At the end, if you saw all the damage done to the deck and we had told you it was done by, not one, but two velociraptors, you’d say;

“Yeah, that looks about right.”

Wrigley ate Kasey's poop. When I discovered this my first thought was: oh, no, that dog licks my face. My second thought was to call our vet for a cure, forgetting that, at that time, our vet's only goal was to take our money. The women at the vet said in a bad Valley Girl voice;

"We have this product called Forbid. You place it on the feces and it makes the feces undesirable to eat."

"How much is it?" I asked.

"Fifty dollars a tube" she said.

"Let me get this straight, " I said in angry amazement, "you want me to pay $50 to make sh*t taste worse than it already does?" 

Wrigley ate poop, but even he wouldn't eat the peanut butter Virg got from the organic, locally grown, sustainable, natural, non-fat, all vegetarian store. 

One day Wrigley got caught in a bad hail storm. It scared him so much, he would not go outside if it was even slightly overcast.

Near the end, Wrigley took to enjoying eating off of a spoon with us feeding it to him.

Wrigley not only was a bottomless pit of chewing, he was also a bottomless pit of affection; at times during the evening he would insist that you pet him by sticking his snout under your hand. After you rubbed his ears and neck for a while - with him happily grunting and purring the whole time - he would slowly walk forward for you to scratch his butt. He was one butt-scratching loving dog. Wrigley, not us, decided when we were done petting him. This happened at least three times a night.

Wrigley did not get much affection. Just when he woke up in the morning and when he was put to bed at night. And about thirty or forty more times in between. 

  Wrigley loved chewing his bones – and anything else for that matter – so much his front lower teeth were down to the nubs.

When you woke Wrigley up in the morning he was usually on his back and snoring like a drunken sailor. When he went to bed at night, he flopped down and grunted like an old man. Both always made me laugh. So, basically, every day of Wrigley’s life he made me laugh when I first saw him and when I put him to bed.

And only about twenty times in between. 

Wrigley was a shameless momma’s boy. He worshiped Virg and followed her around as she puttered around the house with a sweet look of blind love on his puppy face. It was adorable. It was mutual.

If we were upstairs, Wrigley would sneak up and lie on the couch. When he heard us coming down the stairs, he would slink off with the guiltiest look you have ever seen on a dog's face. His head would actually hang down in shame. 

A couple of years ago, Wrigley slipped and fell on the stairs. He was not hurt, but it scared him so much he never went upstairs again.

Finally, Wrigley’s body decided it could not live a full year without his beloved Kasey and it gave up on him within a few weeks to the year of when Kasey was put to sleep. Just like with old couples. 

They say Wrigley died of cancer. We know he died of a broken heart.

On his last two nights, Wrigley, Virg and Ann Caroline had a slumber party in the family room. He loved it. They loved it.

Wrigley was put to sleep on the exact same spot as Kasey. In the same beautiful late afternoon sun ray in the family room. 

We will love and miss Kasey and Wrigley every day for the rest of our lives. We don't feel like it now, but we were so very lucky. You could not have asked for two better dogs.