You may have noticed I love plagiarizing old song lyrics. I’m a reasonably adept wordsmith, but often no words say it better than my favorite songs. Last month, lyrics from “She’s in Love with a Rodeo Man” testified to the longevity of my old dog and old truck. The tradition continues …

“Now that you’re gone, I won’t have to rush when I’m leaving; now that you’re gone, I won’t get woken up when I’m sleeping. And now that you’re gone, looks like things will be a lot easier; life should be a breeze, ya know, I really shouldn’t be sad, but I’m bluer than blue, sadder than sad, you were the brightest light this empty townhouse ever had … life without you is gonna be, bluer than bluuue.

“Now that you’re gone, I’ll have a lot more cash to deposit; now that you’re gone, I’ll leave my gate wide open if I feel like it. And since you’re gone, I’ll take weekend trips anytime — no one will have to watch you; I really shouldn’t be sad … but I’m bluer than blue, sadder than sad; you’re the cutest passenger my Camaro ever had … and life without you is gonna be, bluer than bluuue.

“I don’t have to miss no TV shows, I can start my whole life over; clean all the stains from my carpet, but the nights will sure be darker, and I’m bluer than blue ….”

The old F-150 is still running, but little Trina lies in the field down by the canal where she loved to dig holes. I was the one digging the hole this time, and in it with Trina are the ashes of our best friend of 12 years, Trinity.

Since I wrote that column justifying putting off that sad day, conditions changed almost overnight. For the first time ever, she began making slight moaning noises at night. While I slept one night, she got disoriented and I found her at the bottom of the cellar steps the next morning. She wasn’t hurt, but when she couldn’t get to her feet the next morning without my help, I heard loud and clear what she was telling me.

I drove her to a vet she trusted and Trina’s life gently ended with her paw securely in my hand. I buried her days later, on my birthday, Sept. 19. And I am still blue, yet totally at peace knowing I provided Trina a safe, happy, loving life.

Since she was basically dragged into the animal shelter by her idiot owner in 2002 (for the unforgivable offense of killing a chicken), other than the usual, inevitable accidents, Trina never experienced another moment of loneliness or pain. Even on the vet’s table, she felt safe and loved until her tender heart stopped beating.

She had become nearly blind in her later years, but I was honored to be her surrogate eyes. I still find myself occasionally reaching over while driving for reassurance that I’m right there with her. Even when I was shivering, the passenger window almost always remained open so she could gulp air and scan the landscape as she loved doing for 13 years.

She was nearly deaf, but somehow knew when I got off the couch to go to the kitchen or bathroom, following religiously. I guess she “felt me” (or smelled me; I’m told I have a distinctive odor) and knew. She didn’t get around as quickly since her accident in ’11 and the “vestibular syndrome” this summer, but it sure didn’t stop her from exiting gates on two different jobsites in her last months — once costing me $115 when cops picked her up a block away.

I may still be blue, but not as deep a shade as my neighbor’s 3-year-old German short-hair, Brita. Still in mourning, for a week she still barked and whined to be let out each time my vehicle pulled in. She would always rush to Trina’s door, shaking in anticipation for Trina’s slow exit, to sniff and nuzzle her elderly friend. That tender May/December romance warmed my and Brita’s owner Dagmar’s hearts every time.

Even my cats miss Trina. Little Princess still lingers around the carpet spot near the TV that Trina called bed. I’m sure all four of them would love to rub up against her (sometimes to Trina’s annoyance) one more time.

And I would love to feed “Smiley” (the nickname a roofing customer gave her) spaghetti noodles one more time. She always planted herself next to my couch “dinner table,” with noodles her second-favorite meal, barely edged out by “pizza night.” With my black cat Sportscar still next to my plate, at least I don’t have to eat alone, but I fondly reminisce each time a perfectly good steak bone goes to waste.  

“Now that she’s gone, I’ll have a lot less food I have to share; now that she’s gone, my car seat will have a lot less messy dog hair … I really shouldn’t be sad, but the neighborhood is bluer than bluuue …”