Fritz Lamb

Towards the end of his long life, we started calling Fritz our “grumpy, old man,” because he had the appearance and outlook of a grumpy, old man. He had a gray beard and his black beady eyes looked at you accusingly, like he knew that you were up to no good. We heard his shrill bark more and more, especially in the mornings when he would bark by our bedside until we reached down and scooped him up, only for him to bark at us again when he needed to get down a few minutes later. It was annoying. I would roll over and glare at him before putting him down. But now that Fritz is gone, I feel terrible for being so mean to him, for not understand what it’s like to get old, to not be able to do the things you used to do.

My favorite memory of Fritzy was of him jumping up on my bed in the mornings and snuggling with me. He would come after the family had already started waking up and after he had breakfasted in the kitchen at the other end of the house. I could hear his approach two rooms away. His nails clacking against the hardwood floors as he raced to the room I shared with Melanie sometimes seemed like a figment of last night’s dream, in my half-awake state. On his morning runs to our bedroom, Fritz would gain enough momentum to open our door. I’d hear it bang open and then he would land on my bed with a thump, uninvited. Sometimes he’d land at my feet and I’d move my legs to make a little hollow for him. Sometimes he’d land right on top of me. On those mornings, he’d march right up, real close until I could smell and feel his doggy breath on my face. I’d open my eyes and see two black marbles staring at me. On those mornings, I’d put my arms around him and we would sleep a little longer, spooning.

He didn’t always snuggle with me. There were two twin beds and sometimes he would choose the other one. It never made me jealous when he chose Mel’s bed over mine because we both knew that he truly belonged to Judy. We were just lucky that she knew how to share.