OUR LAGUNA: Saying goodbye to a beloved friend

Whenever I speak to groups about my job, they always ask which story I have written was my favorite. I have no one answer — there have been so many in the past 23 years.

But when they ask what was the hardest story I ever wrote, my response is always the same: obituary of a friend. It is my choice to write them — no editor would ever make me do it — and it’s better than having a stranger do it. I always cry as I type.

I am crying now.

Today, I said farewell to my 14-year-old West Highland white terrier, Piper.

Piper was my second Westie. The first one, Duffy, was also beloved and mourned when he died. I still had my golden retriever, Tawny, a sweetheart, but eventually, my son Paul and nephew Jon decided it was time for me to have another Westie — the breed closest to my heart. They found the breeder, picked out the pup and my great-nephew, John Fred, brought him to my office on my birthday — which happened to fall on a Tuesday when the City Council was meeting — so I really didn’t get a chance to do much more than coo at him until I got home.

By that time, he was already Alpha Dog — taking food from Tawny’s bowl and using her ears for chew toys.

Piper was no show dog. His back was too long — Westies should be almost square — his tail too curved — it should have been shaped like a carrot — and his ears were too big. His coat was silky and beautiful, where it should have been bristly — there is a reason Westies are called hard-coat terriers.

But his character was pure Westie — smart, funny and very secure, practically the definition of the breed.

He would happily spend the day with the groomer. He would push open the gate at the front door of the pet store and run to the back, where he would greet the shampooer, the groomer and the store owner.

If everyone was busy, Pipe (sic) would go to one of the kennels, open the door and put himself inside to wait his turn in the tub.

He went to the groomer every Saturday until my younger Westie, Scooter, moved in and then it was every other Saturday. Double your pleasure, double your expenses.

Amazingly, Piper put up with everything from Scooter that Tawny had put up with from him. He even taught Scooter where to go to the backyard, when ordered to “whiz.” I am not much for euphemisms, but the dog trainer told me not to use a common word for the command, otherwise, I might be embarrassed when someone at the dinner table asked me to pass the peas.

Did I mention smart? At night all I had to say was go to bed and off they trotted to their crates. Their best trick was climbing into the car and each getting into his own car seat on command.

A lesson learned was never forgotten. Piper was a creature of habit and very stubborn.

One day I picked him up from the groomer and took him for a walk at nearby Treasure Island Park, which had just opened. He was thirsty so we stopped at the doggie fountain in the park. The next time we walked there, we stopped again. The third time, I was in a hurry and didn’t want to make any stops.

But Piper did. About midway, he plunked himself down and wasn’t about to move. A passerby stopped and observed that he seemed to want to have a drink.

Right! Been there. Done that. Always gonna do it.

Piper was a sturdy dog. John Fred and I played with him in the house, rolling plastic bottles or soda cans for him to chase — they didn’t bounce. He’d go flying into a wall, carom off and fetch the rolling bottle. Once when he was playing outside, he dove off the top concrete stair to the patio three steps down, landed on his chin and cold-cocked himself. He regained consciousness before I could even get to him, shook his head a couple of times, and took off after the ball he had been chasing.

To say the least, Piper’s eating habits were peculiar. I had to plant strawberries in my front yard, because he would gobble up all the ripe ones in the backyard before I got to them. He ate bananas, grapes, apples and all vegetables — even onions. In fact anything that dropped on the floor was fair game.

He also ate plastic — honest. As a pup, his favorite toy was a bath brush with a plastic handle — which slowly disappeared. As he got older, plastic bottles went the same way, and he also chomped on the soda cans — which he would snatch out of the garbage or off tables given the chance.

Piper loved my sister-in-law, Patsy — John Fred’s grandmother; my daughter-in-law Tracy; my nephew Jeff and Paul even after Paul switched his affection to his own yellow Labrador, Bucky. Pipe was OK with my grandchildren and my other sons, and he tolerated kisses on his face by the pet shop owner, which only Jeff and John Fred did with impunity.

But most of all, he loved me. Where I was, he usually was — at the other end of the couch if I was reading or watching television, in the middle of the dust pile if I was sweeping the kitchen or the pile of leaves or if I was sweeping the patio. His idea of heaven was the foot of my bed, a rare treat.

Piper is not the first pet I have had to part with. But it doesn’t get any easier, and every one of you who has lost a beloved pet will know exactly how I feel on this sad, sad day. Piper hated to go to the vet so we had the vet come to us, and it is a comfort to me that he went gently to sleep in his own home with me at his side.

I am going to miss him so.

OUR LAGUNA is a regular feature of the Laguna Beach Coastline Pilot. Contributions are welcomed. Write to Barbara Diamond, P.O. Box 248, Laguna Beach, 92652; hand-deliver to Suite 22 in the Lumberyard, 384 Forest Ave.; call (949) 494-4321 or fax (949) 494-8979.