REST IN PEACE, WILEY

An homage on the passing of our beloved furry best friend

A sad time in the Coffey household, but very worthy to put in print to honor the memory of a beloved family member, our dog, Wiley.

(Many thanks to my lovely wife for her input and help!)

We love you and miss you, pal,

Daddy

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The notion of Wiley first came when I went furniture shopping with my roommate in my early days of living in Austin as I was moving into an unfurnished apartment.

The furniture guy had a dog at the store that stole my heart. Despite a leg injury that was going to need surgery, the spirited dog still ran out to greet me in a limping gait, squealing each time he put weight on his bad knee. But his affection-seeking couldn’t be denied as he leaned into my legs letting me scruff his neck.

I was intrigued. “What kind of breed is your dog?” I asked the furniture store owner.

“Australian Shepherd—he’s a miniature Blue Merle.”

It became my mission to have this kind of dog. He was perfect in size, spirit, intelligence, and devotion. I had no idea that Aussies came in a mini-size, and I was hooked on the four-legged character I had met. I stalked the Internet for a couple of years and found a site breeding miniature Aussie’s for sale in Utah called McPups.

Despite sounding like a fast-food puppy mill, they had the most gorgeous puppies I’d ever seen, but one, in particular, stood out—and literally reached out through the screen and gobbled up my heart.

I wish I still had the picture, but the puppy was smartly posed, sitting on a couch, sporting a slightly crooked grin and a look of mischief in his eyes. I’ve never felt so certain about any decision in my life. I showed the picture to everyone: my family, my workmates, and my then girlfriend (now wife)—everyone felt the spark from this picture. So I bought a dog off the Internet.

Wiley arrived from Utah and I picked him up from the airport's cargo section and took him home.

I remember opening the cage and having the instinct to back away and let him come out when comfortable. Soon, out bounded a three-pound ball of fur half the size of my forearm, dousing me with kisses as he hopped and leaped to reach my face.

Wiley as a puppy (Photo by E. Coffey)

Initially, I gave him the unfortunate name of Marley as I had to declare something for his first vet visit. He was supposedly one hundred percent checked out by a vet examination that I paid for, yet came to me with a horrible case of mange, the type humans can get, and ringworm. Fortunately, we didn’t end up getting either of these ailments which was pure luck as there was no holding us back from snuggling him.

For the first few weeks of his existence, the poor little guy had to endure horrible sulfur dip-baths. He came out of those sessions a neon lime color and smelling of rotten eggs like he’d spent his days chasing balls around Chernobyl.

Wiley earned his name by thwarting me on our very first night together. I gated him in my mini-kitchen, applauding myself for being a sensible dog owner, not caving for a puppy’s need to sleep with me.

I was startled awake by tiny scratches and yelps just outside of my bedroom door. I opened the door and Wiley triumphantly bounded in. He had squeezed himself through an opening in the corner of the gate that I swear was no bigger than a fifty-cent piece.

This little game went on most of the night—I even tried putting him in his crate on a chair level with my bed so he could see me while I was sleeping. Nope. That didn’t work for him either; his yips and desperate yelps finally broke me and I allowed him to curl up on the end of the bed. I woke up feeling refreshed and proud of the instantly trained-to-perfection dog that greeted me by licking my chin. I discovered three separate puddles of pee on the far side of my bed a bit later. My wife still teases me about this one.

My remedy was to attach a blue cat bell to his collar. In the middle of the night, I’d hear tink, tink, tink, I’d fly awake, scoop him up, and drop him on the front lawn of my townhouse. In two short (but sleepless) weeks, he was potty trained. After he turned one, he never went in the house again for the next fifteen years.

Just like the dog in the movie 101 Dalmatians, Wiley decided it was time for my long run of a bachelor’s life to reach its conclusion upon meeting my then-girlfriend. As my wife now says, I may have found Wiley, but they were soulmates destined for one another.

My wife watched Wiley during the day while I went in to work. I would pick him up from her house amazed at the tricks and obedience he picked up in little time. The trouble was, he never wanted to leave her house, especially his favorite human. While he undoubtedly loved me, he was attached to her hip. Aussies typically choose one human as their human. She was his. He had to know her whereabouts at all times until his final day.

My sister-in-law is fond of telling me that without Wiley, I may not have ever gotten married to her sister. She’s probably right. I will say I had a bit to do with things, but Wiley absolutely sealed the deal.

Wiley was there when I proposed to her, running around the corner, sniffing at her engagement ring precisely the moment after I dropped to my knees and we all had a group hug and shared celebration kisses.

And while he wasn’t at the wedding, a framed picture of him outfitted in a tuxedo bowtie sat on the greeting table as guests arrived. He was the most handsome fellow around.

Needless to say, Wiley was in Nirvana when we finally moved into my wife’s house and became a true family. He was our first child, our “fur-baby”. For his first eight years, he held the spotlight entirely.

On his first birthday party, we met his four-legged friends at a dog park, then headed to a dog-friendly outdoor restaurant in downtown Austin. We even had dog themed goody bags with treats and a stuffed beaver toy. (Don’t ask.)

He was the biggest fan of all holidays.

For Valentine’s Day he sat patiently waiting for his homemade heart shaped treats to come out of the oven.

At Easter, he enjoyed hunting and cracking eggs filled with kibble and treats. Some of his epic Halloween costumes were Ponchito, Count Dogula, Darth Vader, a Shark, the Prisoner.

Wiley as Count Dogula! (Photo by E. Coffey)

At Thanksgiving, he was the grill supervisor keeping a close eye and nose on the turkey, gravy, pumpkin pie, etc.

During Christmas he wore a Santa suit, we nicknamed him Santa Weez. Santa Weez was naughty. He would wee-ha around my in-law’s backyard, an exercise of exploding in circles in repeated loops at full burst. Their yard had a steep hill, so he would run to the top, fly down like a little goat and jet across their deck at a full sprint, foregoing the stairs to launch off in a flying leap. After growing out of the Santa suit, he happily stuck his neck out for the red and green jester collar every year, even seeming reluctant to take it off when the season had passed.

He had a best friend (partner-in-crime) named Benny. At just 6 months apart, it was no surprise that these two puppies made fast friends. Benny was often his elf at Christmas time as we’d watch him for our friends during the holidays. There may have even been one holiday he chewed a hole into the bag of Benny’s dog food, feeling rather sick under the twinkling lights.

Wiley was there for all of the major changes in our lives, births, deaths, triumphs and tragedies—he remained a constant source of comfort and stability.

For years, he slept in our bed, the “sleeping pill” we called him as I have never had a more relaxed sleep with him cuddling against my leg at night. He was even pretty good about giving us both equal time of snuggles.

He was an absolute sniper when it came to human food. He would literally floor-stomp our feet and rake our toes with his sharp sloth-like toenails as he shadowed us as we prepared each meal. And I mean each meal: breakfast, lunch, dinner—a quick or sneaky snack, he would appear from the depths of the house the second anyone crossed into the kitchen area.

In fact, Wiley’s love of food might be unparalleled. Our friends would marvel at watching him eat his entire bowl of dog food moments after it was dispersed from his auto-feeder as if a ravenous pack was bearing down on him to challenge for the meal. We should have gotten him a commercial as he would have had no problem eating on cue. That also went for going outside for potty breaks. One of his most impressive skills that set him apart.

Despite being a glutton, Wiley kept in exceptional shape for his entire sixteen years. Almost daily for years, we went to an outdoor track at a nearby school in the evenings. He would run after hard rubber balls painted with silly eyes on them that we used to hurl across the field at great distances by using a chuck-it. He would retrieve the ball and run back to us for a quick kibble treat. He refused to get the ball otherwise. He also became quite an agility star keeping up with the young pups at the Zoom Room. Highly motivated by freeze dried duck and hot dog pieces, he would fly through the course at astonishing speeds.

After 8 years, Wiley was promoted from only child to big brother with the entry of my sons into his life. Ever present as a warden and spiritual savant to my wife during her pregnancies, he adjusted well to being assaulted from all angles by chubby toddlers, enduring ear tugs and nubby-tail pulls. They eventually adapted to one another, and my boys learned to respect their elderly, furry big brother.

He detested thunderstorms, especially fireworks. The Fourth of July was his most dreaded day of the year. He would endure this most heinous night of terror by crawling up in my lap—his “thunder daddy”—for reassurance. Wiley, you bowed out before one last fourth—we understand.

Just a few days after his passing, I find myself checking his usual haunts, the dining room rug that allows a direct line of sight into the kitchen for proper stalking of food; his cushioned dog beds, now empty.

When I prepare food, I glance down half-expecting to receive a nasty scratch across my foot from anxious paws. It’s been disturbingly peaceful. It’s no fun really.

I even miss him waking me up in the middle of the night by ramming his head into my side of the bed because he could no longer hold his bladder and didn’t want to mess inside the house.

I don’t miss watching him stagger outside the last few times, looking like the losing boxer in a fight that desperately needs to be stopped.

He passed in peace. Safe in his home, warm in our arms, enduring in our hearts forever.

Wiley, we owe you more than we’re ever capable of repaying. You enriched our lives and made us whole. We will seek you out one day in eternity.

You were and shall remain our best friend in the world.

Wiley’s 16th birthday (Photo By E. Coffey)

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