Saturday, November 26, 2005
Sail On, Missy B.
Seventeen years.
How many people can say they ever had a relationship with an animal - especially a dog - that lasted for seventeen years? Not many, I suppose.
Our family did. Her name was Missy Belle, but we just called her Missy. Or "B," or"B Dog," or "Beezer," or any number of other pet names. She joined our family in 1988, a Sheltie-mix born in a neighbor's backyard across the street. The neighbor went totally bat shit one day and set fire to his own house, and the guys in white coats hauled him off. A couple of puppies got left behind in the fiasco, so we adopted one of them. She took to us right away, and we to her. Missy was the most gentle, sweet little dog, and so easy to train, she just seemed to always do the right thing naturally.
Though she was always a bit protective of her family, she only actually bit two people in her whole life. One was my nephew, when she mistook his horseplay with one of my kids as a threat and nipped him. The other was my father, but hell, I'd bite that old bastard if I was a dog, too.
Missy B was a constant source of sunlight and smiles in the Crime Dog household. Until the last few years of her life, when she grew feeble and could no longer hear us when we came through the door, she always greeted us with a smile and this little "happy-dog spin move" she was so good at. When I say smile, I mean a real smile, where the corners of her mouth would turn up ever so slightly. No matter how bad a day I might have had, how foul my mood, or how sad, I could count on a big greeting, with a smile and a few spin moves, as soon as I walked through the door.
She never cared a whit about fetching anything, but man could she catch food. We used to practice a lot in the kitchen: overhand, underhand, sidearm, hook shot, under the leg, behind the back, didn't matter. She caught everything like a pro, just snapped it right out of the air. It was one of her favorite things to do, right up there with "sweat sock tug-o-war" and "beg some ice off of whoever is getting into the freezer." When that little dog heard ice clinking in a glass, she came running, knowing that a piece would get dropped in her direction. You would have thought it was steak, the way she went for it.
I think her favorite word was "go." As in, "Missy, you wanna go?" Man, she loved to go everywhere with us, and hated getting left behind. Sometimes she'd get mad at us for leaving her, and go scrounging around the kids' rooms till she found an unprotected candy stash. Once she ate an entire chocolate Easter bunny, one of those big ones about 8" tall. It scared us to death, but she never even showed any ill effects. She was one tough dog.
Missy use to literally follow everyone around like a puppy dog. She was in the backyard with me one day at our former home, and I came into the house and closed the sliding screen door behind me, forgetting she was there. I heard this thump and a yelp, and there she was, snorting and shaking her head, having run headlong into the screen. I apologized and opened the screen door up again, but she was afraid it was a trick. She'd step toward the door, then back off, step up and back off again. I tried to coax her in the door, and she finally walked up and extended her paw, feeling for the screen. She inched forward and repeated the move two or three times, till she was finally satisfied the door was open. I laughed till tears rolled down my cheeks.
There was never a dog like Missy B, nor will there ever be again. Thanksgiving afternoon, we found her unable to get up on her own. We tended to her for two days, but she refused food and water, and was unable to do much more than lift her head. I don't guess she was so much sick as she was just worn out. By Saturday morning, we knew the time had come. She got to "go" one last trip with us. The vet was very kind and gentle, and her great heart stopped beating about 3:00PM, this past Saturday, November 26, 2005.
Seventeen years.
It was not enough. Sail on, little girl.
