Bazi

I know, I know... In only my second ever posting I'm already writing about my dog. And not even my dog really, but my Dad's schnauzer, Bazi. Bazi is fifteen years old (who knows how many that is in people years), he has huge fatty tumors all over his body, his breath stinks, and I'm sure he can barely hear or see much of anything anymore. But in my world, Bazi is absolutely perfect. Here's the deal. There are five people in my immediate family - Mom, Dad, me, Peter, and Eric. In the summer of 1988, when we bought Bazi, I was the only one not present for the choosing. I was at a soccer camp before my freshman year in highschool. Our German exchange student, Uli, went along in my place and convinced the family that we needed to name our new, fluffy little schnauzer "Bazi", which according to Uli meant "little friend" in German. I have yet to meet a German speaker who is familiar with the term. For all we know "bazi" means "shits a lot" in German. But the name stuck and I can't imagine calling this handsome guy anything but. I was never as close to Bazi as everyone else in my family. Like most things, as the oldest, I was too busy being the "first" to do everything in my family to spend much time just hanging with the pooch. Eric, on the other hand, unburdened by the trappings of much responsibility (ha!), could spend hour upon hour laying on the couch with Bazi, smelling his breath and picking his eye buggers. To this day, Bazi waits for Eric to get home from Namibia to give a real thorough eye cleaning. Bazi's true soulmate however is none other than my dad, Bill Weiss. To anyone in our hometown of Wooster, Bazi is Bill's dog. No question. When any of us come home for a visit we inevitably bump into someone who says, "I saw your Dad walking the dog the other day" or "yeah, my mom says she sees your dad on occasion walking the dog."

Bazi and Bill have been best buddies from the day they met. Two aging German boys; one with a taste for sweets the other for ice cubes. Only recently has Dad let Bazi out of his sight for an extended period of time. Now while he is in California with my Mom and Grandpa, Bazi is allowed to stay with Mary and me.

And so it is that now, at the twilight of Bazi's life that I'm finally getting to know him. Bazi is sore, and tired and has a hard time falling asleep. He'll moan and root at his blanket, much like his ancestors used to do while rooting in rat holes on German farms. The first night he was with us this time around he whimpered and whined for so long that I got out of bed and gave him a good 'ol rub down to relax his tired muscles. I marvelled at how he still had the broad, stout shoulders of a dog that could grab ahold of a sock when we were younger and give you a really challenging tug-of-war fight.

After a walk, he'll hop up and down on his hind legs, growl a little, and slap his front paws on the linoleum until he gets his post-walk biscuit. But mostly these days Bazi sleeps a lot. It has been so nice to watch him sleep and to know that if he is dreaming he has only the warm, loving, devoted experience of my Dad to keep comfort him as his body gets older and older. We love you Bazi. Here's hoping that little Boom Boom will get to draw pictures of you to hang on Dad's fridge.