In 2000, I spotted a small gray dog on the TV news
segment designed to match potential owners with pets from the local Humane
Society. She looked right into the camera and right into my heart. I raced down
to Mike’s office yelling, “Get in the car. We’re going to get a
dog.”
We’d been three months without a canine companion at
that point, and he was at least half as ready as I was. In a few minutes we were
in the car and within an hour I was holding Belle. Her owner had died and the
family didn’t want her.
Too bad for them! They missed out on a lot of years of
love and devotion, friendship and fun.
After taking care of the paperwork, Mike and I hustled
her off to a pet supply store for a collar, tag, toys, food, and other
paraphernalia. We hustled her to the vet for a check-up and shots. We hustled
her around to show our friends. We were, looking back on it all, ridiculously
besotted with her.
She was eight pounds of feisty attitude back then, and
clearly not a Belle. Mike took the pink ribbon out of her hair and gave her a
new name—Bubba. She grew into it, becoming a ten-pound alpha who arranged the
days to meet a schedule firmly embedded in her tiny brain. Always fair, she
moved from lap to lap, room to room, checking on us, herding us toward the leash
hanging by the door, informing us it was time for breakfast or
dinner.
She’s 15 now and often we’re the ones who herd
her—waving our arms so she’ll see movement, clapping our hands so she’ll hear.
She still informs us when it’s time to eat, but mostly she sleeps, curled in a
special cushion in my office, snuggled on the sofa beside Mike, or wedged
between the pillows on our bed.
Someday she may not wake up when I pet her head or put a
dog biscuit under her nose. I hope that’s how it will happen. I hope she knows
it’s time to leave and makes the decision herself. I hope she will go off in her
dreams to explore whatever comes next for a devoted dog who always knew her own
mind.
