Monday Musings

I'm working away on my new book and - gasp - loving it so far.  This worries me, for a myrid of reasons.  But for now, I'm going to go with it.  I have the bonus of knowing these characters from my September 2013 book - they first appeared there, and now they get their own story. 

It's hot here - too hot - like 86.  But a cold front is coming and on Thursday - my birthday - it will only be 66 for a high.  Which is perfect weather, as far as I'm concerned. 

In 2004 on this day, we had to help our beloved Border Collie Sir Cody cross the Rainbow Bridge.  He was born June 9, 1988, so he was nearly 16.  He could barely stand and no amount of Rimadyl helped his arthritus pain.  He'd chewed through his elbow all the way to the bone twice.  We'd had it surgically repaired.  But it got to where he couldn't get up and couldn't stand or hardly walk.  It broke my heart seeing him like that.  He was the smartest dog I've ever had the priviledge to love, and full of energy.  He could leap into the air and catch a frisbee or a ball, and he got his CDX (Companion Dog Excellent) title six months after we started showing obedience.  His scores were high enough that we got invited to the Gaines Regional Semi-finals and I was the reason he didn't advance further, not him.  I made the mistake of petting him to congratulate him, too much of a novice to realize that was against the rules, so we were disqualified. 

I have an entire VCR tape of him showing - performing.  True to his Border Collie breed, he was happiest when he had a job to do.  When he was happy, his plume of a tail curved over his back.  He shed like a beast - no amount of brushing could stop it.  He had a penchant for mud and messes and a mischievious nature.  I miss him, even now, nearly ten years later. 

Here is my favorite saying about dogs - and it's true.  I've seen him a few times, in the shadowy darkness of the middle of the night, lurking outside my bedroom door. 

If you bury him in this spot, he will come to you when you call - come to
you over the grim, dim frontiers of death, and down well-remembered paths,
and to your side again. And though you call a dozen living dogs to heel they
shall not growl at him, nor resent his coming, for he belongs there. People
may scoff at you, who see no lightest blade of grass bent by his footfall,
who hear no whimper, people who may never really have had a dog. Smile at
them, for you shall know something that is hidden from them, and which is
well worth the knowing. The one best place to bury a dog is in the heart of
the master.


From the Portland Oregonian, Sept. 11, 1925.
By Ben Hur Lampman