Saying goodbye to the goodest boy

Here's my theory: That gigantic, gorgeous head of his is actually a goldfish bowl, full of water. And there's a tiny goldfish in there, just doing his best to control this big, goofy mastiff body.

• It explains his complete lack of coordination or grace, his inability to remember anyone he's met less than two dozen times — he's a real-life Dory from "Finding Nemo" — and his fear of all things.
• And by all things I mean bicycles, hats, me in a wig, trash cans, grocery bags and, on at least one occasion, his own farts. Among many, many other things.

What they're barking: The American Kennel Club describes Corsi as "smart, trainable, and of noble bearing … a peerless protector."

State of play: There is little about the description of a typical Corso personality that I recognize in Tony.

• He's not very smart.
• He's also not very trainable. He learned "sit" but never made it to "shake" because he got scared and confused when I tried touching his paw and ran away, forgoing the promised treats.
• He's a protector in that he does bark at new people (again, that's anyone he hasn't met at least two dozen times) but once they get into the house he hides behind me.

Zoom(ie) in: There is one important exception, though. Corsi are said to be intensely loyal to their humans and Tony is nothing if not loyal to me (unless it's Halloween and I'm wearing a wig).

• He is the sweetest, snuggliest and most well-intentioned boy that ever lived and, for the first four years of his life, I had the extraordinary honor of being his emotional support human.

Last year, he returned the favor.

• It was a particularly difficult one for me, and some days I just didn't even want to get out of bed, ya know?
• But there was Tony, laying in bed next to me, sharing my pillow and waiting for me to get up so he could start the day.

• And every day was the best, most exciting day. He couldn't wait for his walk, loved the days he got to go to "school" aka doggie daycare and was always, always excited to see me — if I'd been gone for five minutes or five days.

The paw-tom line: His giant heart and tiny goldfish brain made every day a little better and got me through the hardest ones.

• So, the least I can do is get him through his.

The latest (and worst): Tony was diagnosed with osteosarcoma, an aggressive bone cancer, last week.

• The treatment options aren't great. He'd need to have one of his hind legs amputated, likely go through some kind of chemo and/or radiation and the prognosis would still be pretty grim.
• He's in a lot of pain.

So, today I'll hold that giant head in my lap, pet his extra soft ears and once again, resume the mantle of his emotional support human while he crosses the rainbow bridge.

• It's been the honor of a lifetime, buddy.