Something strange happened on Monday. A golden retriever passed away that I watch when I housesit for one of my favorite families. This is the second dog I've sat that has passed away, and it's always sad. I want to tell you a little bit about him. He may not be my own dog, but when you care for them, they do become part of your family.
Mojo is an old white faced golden, who is one of the dearest dogs you have ever met. He greets you with a huge jump on the door when you are walking in the house, and even the hard thwap of his tail when you are laughing at Brooklyn Nine-Nine in the next room. Whenever you move around the house, he's always at attention, eagerly awaiting a treat, or slumpling down and rolling over begging for a belly scratch. Mojo will hunt you down wherever you are in the house for head scratches, and his upper lip curling up in excitement with hopes of going outside to run around and play in the grass with a red and white peppermint striped squeaker toy.
Most mornings, both Nina and Mojo would push open my door to come in and greet me, Nina jumping up into the bed for cuddles, and Mojo with his hot breath eagerly sticking his head as close to me as he could muster. Sometimes when he gets especially excited to go outside, he'll bend down real low and start to growl and howl, overcome with anticipation.
The last time I packed and left the house, I didn't know exactly what was coming, but I made sure to say goodbye, I love you, and kiss him on his sweet head. Rest in Peace, kiddo. Cancer-free worlds await you.