As a puppy, Avery sported a white tail tip and comical “Flying Nun” ears. Before long, those wonky baby ears transformed: His right stood tall, while the left flopped down. Seven years later — after moving to Vermont — his left ear mysteriously perked straight up to match.
Avery loved vacations in Provincetown, where he cruised Bayside beach and trekked across the West End breakwater. He wore purple Carnival beads to pose with drag queens on Commercial Street and snacked on pink-frosted Scott Cakes.
Trained for hearing alert, with guidance from a dear friend, Avery learned over 30 tasks. He’d nudge his nose into my shoulder when the morning alarm droned on too long or whenever I had nightmares. He alerted for phone rings, text tones and smoke detectors. His quick interventions helped kitty Rudy during seizure episodes. Twice, he prevented me from being struck by a car.
More than a heart-dog, Avery was a lifesaver, supporting me through the darkest period of my life, which, without him, I couldn’t have conquered.
At 14, Avery still enjoyed forehead snowplowing. Diving joyfully into the fresh fallen snow, he’d twist upside down to make snow angels. Unexpectedly, on January 14, 2026, several days after making his last angel, Avery became one.