Pikachu, who was shamelessly named after my favorite perky, literally electrifying Pokemon, was my pet, my baby. She was a beautiful Japanese Spitz, all white and furry and fluffy. I last saw her on 14 May 2015. She passed away later that year.
She first came into my life in May 2003. She was so tiny when she first arrived at our home, being only a few months old back then. She didn’t know how to eat from her pet bowl, but would guzzle milk like there’s no tomorrow.
Pikachu was not a pure Japanese Spitz. Her mother, Choco, was, but her father was apparently a strapping poodle. Thus, you can see that Pikachu had inherited her sire’s big eyes and floppy ears.
Pikachu grew fast and shed and grew back her thick white fur even more quickly. She liked to eat my favorite food as well – chicken liver, baked ziti with mixed tomato and white sauce, roasted and butter-fried chicken, among many others.
When I last saw her, she was already pretty frail from old age. Her right eye had gone blind and there was a lump in her belly. However, she never forgot me until the last day we were together. She remained the same in her endearing ways: loving and possessive of me, excited for the food she’s always preferred, and utterly jealous of my husband.
What else is left to say, but, “Pikachu, I choose you!” in true Pokemon fashion, because I always will.
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