We got this good boy at the Humane Society in 2013. He was a doxie-terrier mix that had been loose on the streets in Milwaukee during the coldest parts of the polar vortex. Mrs. Hoffman saw him on the local website, and it was I DON’T WANT HIM, I … just want to go see him, I want to know what he’s like. She was such a liar, it was love at first sight for her. I think the Humane Society named him Chester. We named him Elliott, and he quickly endeared himself to everyone in the family.
Over the next 8 years, Elliott found a spot on our bed (even though I said he couldn’t sleep on the bed with us and it was I PROMISE, THIS WILL ONLY BE FOR ONE NIGT, THIS WON’T BE A REGULAR THING - again, Mrs. Hoffman was a liar) and a spot in everyone’s heart. He went on trips with us, got to run around at her mom’s farm, killed a handful of rabbits and birds and voles and such, cleaned up food that hit the floor, became a companion for my cat, and was patient and calm with her nephew and niece as they were growing up and wanted to play with him.
He developed a hernia a few years back. Because of his estimated age, it was deemed inoperable but as long as we could push it in and things would be fine. A week ago, Mrs. Hoffman went back to stay with my dad and take care of him and take notes so we could figure out what we’re going to do with him, and she took Elliott with her - partially because he always has separation anxiety from her, but partially because she felt this need for him to go with her. Yesterday, we hit the point that we couldn’t do that, and we decided that when that time happened we wouldn’t prolong it and have him be miserable.
She’ll put him to sleep in a bit, and we’ll bury him at her mom’s farm where he loved to run free.