Goodbye, sweet Ally

I didn't realize how much of my time I spent worrying about you until you were gone.

Your legs and hips, racked with arthritis, would not allow you to give the garbage trucks, UPS trucks, and buses the chasing they deserved. In the end you would stand up on the porch with your hackles raised and a roaring bark that didn't quite match the dog whose legs were buckling underneath her.

Knowing that your mind, sight, and hearing were still keen made our difficult decision somewhat easier. You didn't hold your head high anymore, and it was clear you were in pain.

You were our first "baby," picked out when we had been dating only four months.

To my husband's continual dismay, I refused to let you sleep outside at night, even when you were caked with mud after a rainstorm. I'd carry all 65 pounds of you into the bath and wash you off, a 45-minute affair that was like wrestling a hairy, wild, greased pig. 

It was after one of these baths when, wanting to avoid the mud, I decided to let you out front to use the bathroom in the middle of the night. You bolted, and I ended up chasing you through the neighborhood in the rain in the dead of night. We had words when I finally caught you.

When we moved to East Texas you ruled our part of the woods, disappearing for hours only to return wet, caked with cow poop, or both. You also wore what I swear was a smile on your face.

Zach wanted you to be a hunting dog for a few months, but loud noises did you in. It didn't stop you from hunting, though -- one morning as I left for work you trotted up to me with wings hanging out either side of your mouth.

You used to hunt moles, too, digging holes in the pasture three feet wide and deep. We'd look out the back window and see nothing but dirt flying and the tip of your tail.

You were our enthusiastic companion on river trips, taking your space in the middle of the canoe. You'd swim six of the eight miles downriver, and loved to explore the smells up on shore. Once a lunatic goat farmer in Beaumont pulled a knife on you when he thought you were after his goats. Your quick feet and even quicker diplomacy efforts on the part of Zach spared your hide.

We waited years for that black lab hyperactivity to wane. "Maybe when she's three?" "Maybe when she's five?" "Maybe when she's eight?" By my estimation you finally slowed down a notch or two when you were about ten.

Like many canine kids you were knocked down a peg when the real thing arrived, but you were always sweet to the sticky new family members.

This morning when we went to the shop to work out, there was no one to greet us. It made me sad all over again.

We'll miss you, Ally.