But, lest you think Timbre was an entirely mischievous character, let me reassure, he was trained. He could sit, lay and give you his paw. Provided you gave him a treat in return. And also assuming you didn’t really expect him to differentiate between the three—once you held a treat up and called out a command, he would sit, then lay down, then pop back up and put his paw on your knee, as if to say, “Ok, I’ve done everything you could possibly ask, now hand it over.”
And like the lone baby girl with four older brothers, as the only dog in the house, Timbre became quite spoiled. Though a sensitive tummy meant it best to avoid giving him the most delicious people foods, he enjoyed bread quite a bit and would prance around in princess fashion, tapping his toenails on the floor, watching your fork move from plate to mouth, waiting to receive his special bites. The “no feeding animals from the dinner table” didn’t apply to Timbre, no matter what Dad said.
And he could certainly be a drama queen. His distaste for water was so legendary, I dubbed him “the dog who lived” after helping to give him a dreaded bath once. Theatrics of that sort are usually reserved for life threatening situations, not a bucket of soapy water and the garden hose.
But mostly, he was dear furry friend who laid on my feet when my toes were cold, happily let me play with his “puppy ears,” stuck his nose in the couch cushions in an adorable yet inexplicable fashion, and took his family for walks instead of the other way around.
Timbre, we’ll miss you.