Joey, who was actually a girl, but who I named with a boy’s name because my mother wouldn’t tell me the gender of the dog until after I named her. I remember that she had a litter of puppies under our storage shed one night, but they all died before we could find them.
Wild Turkey (nicknamed W.T.), who was named after my stepfather’s favorite alcoholic beverage. He was dognapped from our yard one day.
Tiffany, who was the sweetest, kindest dog that I’ve ever met. And who in my anger one day, I dropped over the fence of her dog pen, injuring her leg, which she suffered with for the rest of her life. Despite that, she never held that against me, and she loved me unconditionally. I, however, felt guilty about it until the day she died. She was truly my stepfather’s buddy, following him around everywhere he went and laying on his feet while he played computer games. And I’m pretty sure he secretly sneaked her sunflower seeds under the desk! My stepfather was destroyed when Tiffany passed away.
Amanda, the Rottweiler, who in many ways was as dumb as a bag of rocks, but was also a very sweet and loving dog. She loved to get head scratches (and belly rubs when she could get them), even climbing up in the chair with you to get them. She had no idea that she was as big as she was, thinking that it was perfectly acceptable to pass as a lap dog. She was my mom’s devotee, and she’d follow her around everywhere she went. Even if she was only leaving the room for twelve seconds, Amanda would never let my mom out of her sight. She also had an underbite, and her bottom teeth would stick out of her gums, giving her sort of a redneck look.
I always thought it was funny when we’d order pizza. We had a glass outer door on the front, so my stepfather would leave the front door open, so he could see when the pizza guy would arrive. When the pizza guy would come up to the door, Amanda would walk up to that outer door and stare at him through the glass, not menacingly, just curiously. The pizza guy would freak out! He had no idea that Amanda was sizing him up as another potential head scratcher.
Whenever my mom would go to bed, she’d throw the “fancy” pillows from her bed on the floor. Now, the dogs weren’t allowed in my parent’s bedroom, being banished to the den every night. But sometime in the middle of the night, Amanda would always sneak in and lay down on the floor next to the bed, putting her head on the fancy pillows. She might have gotten away with it too, if she didn’t snore so loud that she’d wake my mom up. She’d get shooed back into the den, only to come back a few minutes later. Ultimately, my mom gave up trying to fight it, and as she headed for the bedroom, she’d say, “Come on, Mandy, it’s time for bed.” She got Amanda a large, oversized pillow and laid it on the floor next to the bed. It was the single greatest thing in Amanda’s life…being with my mom in the forbidden room with her head on a soft pillow, snoring away the night…very loudly!
Misty, who was a cross between a terrier and a poodle, sometimes affectionately called a Toodle. She was the smartest and most empathetic dog that I ever remember us having. She was absolutely my dad’s second mate, sitting stuffed next to him in his recliner while he read his paper every night. She also loved licking his fingers after he’d eaten popcorn with cheese on it. One Thanksgiving, my grandmother told him to stop slipping her food under the table. To which my dad replied that she liked the food. To which my grandmother replied that Misty was so in love with my dad that she’d eat poop off a fork if my dad fed it to her, but that didn’t mean it was good for her!
But the thing I remember most about Misty was that she was a fierce and patient hunter…and the squirrels that frequented our backyard were her mortal enemies. She’d hunker down in the long grass, waiting for hours for them to meander into her territory. She’d spy them in the trees, but still she’d wait. She’d see them step gingerly onto the ground, looking around for danger, but still she’d wait. She’d see them take a few tentative steps into the grass, but still she’d wait. And even as they’d get more confidence and step farther away from the tree, still she’d wait. She’d wait for them to get midway between the ash tree and the fig tree, lulled into a false sense of safety and so distracted trying to dig up their buried pecans that they didn’t see her coming. Then, she’d strike.
It was quick. It was precise. Just a white and black blur, as she’d streak through the lush green grass. The squirrels would do what squirrels do…panic. And in their panic, they’d run toward one tree and then the other, indecisive as to which one offered the safest option. As they ran figure eights in the yard, Misty would be closing in on her prey. Finally, the squirrels would pick a tree and take off as fast as they could toward it. They were faster, but Misty had the head start. She also had the brains to head toward the tree in an intercepting path, not chase the squirrels directly. Usually, the squirrels would make it just as her teeth were chomping down on the fluff of their tails, but that’s when they’d make their last calculated error.
They’d assume that getting to the tree ensured their safety. What they didn’t count on was Misty following them up it! The ash tree in our backyard had a “V” between the two main branches about three feet off the ground that created a little pocket. My brother and I used to love getting up into this pocket to play. Misty realized that with enough speed, she could scramble up the three feet and safely get to it as well, which gave her a safe place to regain her footing to attempt a higher ascent into the branches. I have never seen a dog that loved climbing trees before, and apparently neither had the squirrels. You could see the almost certain doom in their eyes, when they suddenly realized that the one advantage they had over a dog, climbing trees, was now a level playing field. Ultimately, instinct took over, and they soon realized that Misty’s climbing prowess could only take her so far up the tree. So, they’d climb just high enough out of reach to chitter their insults down at her. I never saw her actually catch a squirrel, but I think the end goal was really the hunt anyway.
Shelby, who my dad got as a puppy when my spousal unit and I were dating, and who I named after the famous race car. He was a Sheltie, and from day one, he chose me as his human. Despite the best efforts of my dad to win the top spot in Shelby’s affection, he remained my dog throughout his life. He’d always choose to sit next to me on the couch during Pizza Movie Nights. He’d always prefer playing with me and hanging out with me. If I was in the house, he’d just prefer me in general. My dad was only seen as a suitable replacement when I was gone.
I think our bond really solidified during the year that I moved into my dad’s house after college. We connected on a much deeper level. I didn’t try to make Shelby be what I wanted him to be. I took the time to understand who he was, and I appreciated that. He was soulful and thoughtful, almost poetic. Sometimes, he didn’t want my dad messing with him. He just wanted some quiet time to think. So, he’d head out into the backyard, lie down in the grass, and look up at the sky. Shelties are known as “sky gazers,” because of all the dog breeds, they are more likely to look up at the sky, watching planes or clouds roll by. And that was Shelby to a tee. He’d lie out there for hours just watching the sky and thinking. I have no idea what he was thinking about, but there was a deepness in his eyes, like he was grasping the enormity of the universe and contemplating his place in it all.
I was the only human allowed to disturb this time of thoughtfulness and self-reflection, because I respected the sanctity of it. I’d sit quietly next to him in the grass, my hand gently stroking his back, watching the sky too. My dad didn’t get it. He always had to be engaging you or had to be surrounded by noise. He could never just sit quietly and be.
A few months before Shelby died, my spousal unit and I visited my dad and stepmother for Thanksgiving. By this time, my parents had long since left the home where Shelby had spent his early years and moved out to a ranch in the country. They also had a younger Sheltie, who Shelby and I both found annoying. As the cacophony of noise increased inside, the Thanksgiving Day parade on the TV, a myriad of conversations overlapping in the kitchen, annoying Sheltie barking for treats, I sought solace in the one place that I’d always found it at my dad’s house…with Shelby. But he was nowhere to be found. As I searched the house for him, I glanced out the window and saw him lying in the backyard. I snuck out through the back door, and he glanced up at me as I stepped outside. Neither of us said a word. We didn’t have to. We had always understood each other and appreciated the quiet. I sat down in a chair and absently scratched his head as we watched the cows grazing in the distance.
At some point, I looked down at Shelby’s black, white, and brown body…more white now than before…and a feeling passed through me. I can’t explain it, but I somehow knew that it was the last time that I’d ever see him. And through that strange connection that we had, I think he knew exactly what I was thinking. He looked up at me, not with sadness or regret, but with understanding and comfort. Almost as if to say, “I’ll miss you too. But it’s going to be okay. You’ll be okay. This is the way it’s supposed to be.” I started crying then. Even as I write this now, I’m crying thinking about it. I didn’t want that day to end. I wanted to hang onto it…to hang onto him. I wanted to cling to every last moment with him. It suddenly seemed like the most important thing. The food, the people, the din of noise…none of it mattered. Just this moment with Shelby in the backyard, sitting in companionable silence and watching the sky.
It really sucks that God made it so that humans live so much longer than dogs. I was there for the entirety of his all too brief life. I have never missed another dog as much as I miss Shelby. I have never had a connection like that with a dog. Honestly, I’ve never had a connection with a human like that either. He was like my soul mate, which I understand sounds weird to say about a dog. And when he was gone, it was like a part of me was gone too. I can’t talk or think about him without crying. My little sky gazer. I hope God found you a special place to watch the clouds and the stars forever.
