When my beagle Smokey died of incredibly old age (19 years old - no kidding), I consoled myself with memories and photos of a life not only well-lived but seized with incredibly white teeth. Even in his last days, his teeth could have been the models for toothpaste ads.
Not only was my consolation looking at pictures and rifling through memories, but we also have another wonderful, beautiful canine baby - a girl named Gypsy.
She was adopted into the family when Smokey was already an old man in dog years. He was not amused. Gypsy wanted to play and play and play some more. Smokey wanted to sit and enjoy semi-retirement and watch reruns of Lassie on TV.
Gypsy came with a mentality that fast wasn't fast enough and that there was most certainly an extra gear to kick in when you even passed by a tennis ball in the yard. Smokey would get to a saturation point in dealing with the young upstart and reign fur, teeth and terror all over her until Gypsy was cowed into submission and would leave him alone to rest in the sun.
But when Smokey died, it was obvious that a loving canine friendship was there. After the funeral for Smokey up at my Aunt's farm, I came home and cried out my tears into Gypsy's fur.
She understood. She had her own tears.
Not only was my consolation looking at pictures and rifling through memories, but we also have another wonderful, beautiful canine baby - a girl named Gypsy.
She was adopted into the family when Smokey was already an old man in dog years. He was not amused. Gypsy wanted to play and play and play some more. Smokey wanted to sit and enjoy semi-retirement and watch reruns of Lassie on TV.
Gypsy came with a mentality that fast wasn't fast enough and that there was most certainly an extra gear to kick in when you even passed by a tennis ball in the yard. Smokey would get to a saturation point in dealing with the young upstart and reign fur, teeth and terror all over her until Gypsy was cowed into submission and would leave him alone to rest in the sun.
But when Smokey died, it was obvious that a loving canine friendship was there. After the funeral for Smokey up at my Aunt's farm, I came home and cried out my tears into Gypsy's fur.
She understood. She had her own tears.
Her beloved big brother had gone on to that vast ball field in the sky and left her behind. Gypsy moped for days and would go in and look at the corner where his little bed carpet had been and come and look at me with sad little eyes. From that moment, I vowed with every fiber of my being to never again have more than one dog at a time.
Then, I saw the pictures on the Pioneer Woman's website of her 'traitor' dog, Susie. She calls her a traitor because she has taken up residence with her father-in-law, who spoils her rotten.
Then, I saw the pictures on the Pioneer Woman's website of her 'traitor' dog, Susie. She calls her a traitor because she has taken up residence with her father-in-law, who spoils her rotten.
As a side note, Rick calls Gypsy a 'traitor to the cause' because HE is the one who brought her home with the full expectation in mind that she was supposed to be 'his dog'. But all dogs love me for some unknown reason. Even BAD dogs love me. I haven't done anything particular to merit this unbridled affection. It is what it is, as Nick Saban says.
Ree's traitor Susie has a fetching smile, a gentle grace that belies the powerful energy-filled romp that is barely concealed beneath the surface and a look in her eyes that says 'let's play!'
Susie is a Jack Russell.
I am smitten.
Although I still love beagles as my dog of choice, I must say the addiction to canines is branching out some. Maybe this is what they mean by 'gateway' dogs, uh, drugs?
One breed leads to another, to another, to another, to another . . . you see my dilemma?
Though we have busy lives, I can almost justify adding another furbag to the household. I can hear me calling the dogs for mealtime, throwing the ball in the yard and alternating who gets to go on walks with Momma. I know jealousy can result in some instances, but this household don't play those kind of games. You learn to wait your turn or sit in your kennel alone.
Oh the joy of smelling the freshly washed fur! The gleaming teeth tucked carefully around a newly minted tennis ball! The paw prints in the garden path!
But I don't need another dog. The Assassin keeps me busy. She is all I need. She is all I can handle. She is enough.
I wonder what time the pound opens? Surely it can't hurt to just look . . .
Susie is a Jack Russell.
I am smitten.
Although I still love beagles as my dog of choice, I must say the addiction to canines is branching out some. Maybe this is what they mean by 'gateway' dogs, uh, drugs?
One breed leads to another, to another, to another, to another . . . you see my dilemma?
Though we have busy lives, I can almost justify adding another furbag to the household. I can hear me calling the dogs for mealtime, throwing the ball in the yard and alternating who gets to go on walks with Momma. I know jealousy can result in some instances, but this household don't play those kind of games. You learn to wait your turn or sit in your kennel alone.
Oh the joy of smelling the freshly washed fur! The gleaming teeth tucked carefully around a newly minted tennis ball! The paw prints in the garden path!
But I don't need another dog. The Assassin keeps me busy. She is all I need. She is all I can handle. She is enough.
I wonder what time the pound opens? Surely it can't hurt to just look . . .
No comments:
Post a Comment