Wednesday night I drove to my daughter's home in Savannah with a heavy heart and a few tears. I had told myself no tears, but this task called for tears, for soul searching, for heartbreak, and for grief. We'd already been through the first stages of grief for Dixie, the elderly canine member of our family. Tonight she would actually leave us, and life would be changed forever.
Dixie came to live with my husband and me in March 1998, when she was an 8-week-old puppy. Because of his chronic illness, my husband could no longer work outside the home, so Herbie--who for the previous decade had claimed he never wanted another dog--decided he needed a dog. In spite of my weak protests, he chose a puppy from the Humane Society, a part Australian Shepherd, part Golden Retriever sweetheart.
She was honey-colored, with darker brown hair on her back, a slight merle on her right ear, and a light blond underbelly. In her later years, her muzzle turned white, giving her a distinguished elegance. She was fine-boned, haughty at times, and in all ways, beautiful.
Dixie was, without a doubt, Herbie's dearest friend during the last five years of his life. She rode the co-pilot's seat in his minivan, walked on a leash with him when he "walked" his electric wheelchair around the block, and in the back yard, she ran figure eights at lightning speed, herding imaginary sheep and cows.
Herbie threw tennis balls and sticks for Dixie, and she faithfully brought them back to her friend. They shared McDonald's meals, and even though we swore we'd never do it, he fed her goodies from the table, teaching the dog her first really bad habit, begging.
When Herbie died on a Sunday morning in August 2002, I lifted Dixie onto his hospital bed, set along the back wall of the living room so he could look out the picture window and drink in the last of the world he was leaving. She laid with him until he was taken away, and for days she paced the house, trying to round him up. As long as the house was full of family, Dixie was okay, but when the last of them left--our daughter Rachel and her soon-to-be husband, John--her grief overflowed, She wouldn't eat. Her "outside" habits changed. Her desire to chew returned, and she wouldn't leave my side. One evening, after a teary session on the phone with Rachel, I found that Dixie had taken my eyeglasses from the sofa cushion where I'd laid them, and she had chewed scratches into both lenses. It was quickly becoming clear that with my long work days, Dixie couldn't stay with me.
I explored some homes for Dixie but Rachel was unwilling to have her leave the family. She decided that Dixie would live with her and John in their apartment in suburban Pittsburgh, and I agreed to be her caretaker when they traveled. Dixie got used to being walked every day up and down Pittsburgh's hills. In the winter she wore doggie boots to protect her paws from the salt used to melt ice and snow, and in the summer she chased animals in the nearby park.
When Rachel and John moved to Savannah in 2004, Dixie came too, along with two cats that had joined the household. But living in the hot and humid south was different for Dixie. Although she still took her daily walks, she didn't do figure eights and herd animals with the same excitement. However, she swam in the above-ground pool, and basked in the air-conditioning.
In 2009, the first baby came home, and Dixie was desolate. After being an only child, petted and protected for so long, she was now second fiddle to a little bundle of pink, milky, and sometimes noisy infant. Eventually she became used to Lily, which was a good thing, because Garrett and Max followed soon after. She came to stay with me when the family made long trips, so she spent some time with her "grammy" too.
Probably the final major change in her life came when Rachel and John moved to a new home in the spring of 2012. Each entrance to the house had a set of 10 steps, a true low-country home. Getting up the steps became more difficult, and it finally became clear that Dixie had arthritis, along with dementia, anxiety issues, and serious begging problems. She stopped caring about going outside to do her business, and she could no longer hop up on Rachel and John's bed to nap. She fell down stairs to go outside, and had to be boosted to get back in.
Not wanting to lose this last connection to her father, Rachel medicated Dixie and kept her going as long as she could, but in November 2013, it was clear that she was no longer the cute puppy that Herbie had adopted. So one evening, after the kids were in bed, the vet came to the house and helped Dixie out of this life and into the next. Rachel, John, and I shed copious tears for our loss.
But we also reminded ourselves of all that Dixie would gain: a reunion with her beloved Herbie, a healthy body to run figure eights, fetch balls, and herd heaven's animals, and a time to wait for the rest of us. My image of heaven is the wooden bridge at Chapman Dam, with Herbie and Dixie waiting for me--and for all of our loved ones--to walk across and be welcomed into God's sunshine with a hug that lasts forever.
Dixie came to live with my husband and me in March 1998, when she was an 8-week-old puppy. Because of his chronic illness, my husband could no longer work outside the home, so Herbie--who for the previous decade had claimed he never wanted another dog--decided he needed a dog. In spite of my weak protests, he chose a puppy from the Humane Society, a part Australian Shepherd, part Golden Retriever sweetheart.
She was honey-colored, with darker brown hair on her back, a slight merle on her right ear, and a light blond underbelly. In her later years, her muzzle turned white, giving her a distinguished elegance. She was fine-boned, haughty at times, and in all ways, beautiful.
Dixie was, without a doubt, Herbie's dearest friend during the last five years of his life. She rode the co-pilot's seat in his minivan, walked on a leash with him when he "walked" his electric wheelchair around the block, and in the back yard, she ran figure eights at lightning speed, herding imaginary sheep and cows.
Herbie threw tennis balls and sticks for Dixie, and she faithfully brought them back to her friend. They shared McDonald's meals, and even though we swore we'd never do it, he fed her goodies from the table, teaching the dog her first really bad habit, begging.
When Herbie died on a Sunday morning in August 2002, I lifted Dixie onto his hospital bed, set along the back wall of the living room so he could look out the picture window and drink in the last of the world he was leaving. She laid with him until he was taken away, and for days she paced the house, trying to round him up. As long as the house was full of family, Dixie was okay, but when the last of them left--our daughter Rachel and her soon-to-be husband, John--her grief overflowed, She wouldn't eat. Her "outside" habits changed. Her desire to chew returned, and she wouldn't leave my side. One evening, after a teary session on the phone with Rachel, I found that Dixie had taken my eyeglasses from the sofa cushion where I'd laid them, and she had chewed scratches into both lenses. It was quickly becoming clear that with my long work days, Dixie couldn't stay with me.
I explored some homes for Dixie but Rachel was unwilling to have her leave the family. She decided that Dixie would live with her and John in their apartment in suburban Pittsburgh, and I agreed to be her caretaker when they traveled. Dixie got used to being walked every day up and down Pittsburgh's hills. In the winter she wore doggie boots to protect her paws from the salt used to melt ice and snow, and in the summer she chased animals in the nearby park.
When Rachel and John moved to Savannah in 2004, Dixie came too, along with two cats that had joined the household. But living in the hot and humid south was different for Dixie. Although she still took her daily walks, she didn't do figure eights and herd animals with the same excitement. However, she swam in the above-ground pool, and basked in the air-conditioning.
In 2009, the first baby came home, and Dixie was desolate. After being an only child, petted and protected for so long, she was now second fiddle to a little bundle of pink, milky, and sometimes noisy infant. Eventually she became used to Lily, which was a good thing, because Garrett and Max followed soon after. She came to stay with me when the family made long trips, so she spent some time with her "grammy" too.
Probably the final major change in her life came when Rachel and John moved to a new home in the spring of 2012. Each entrance to the house had a set of 10 steps, a true low-country home. Getting up the steps became more difficult, and it finally became clear that Dixie had arthritis, along with dementia, anxiety issues, and serious begging problems. She stopped caring about going outside to do her business, and she could no longer hop up on Rachel and John's bed to nap. She fell down stairs to go outside, and had to be boosted to get back in.
Not wanting to lose this last connection to her father, Rachel medicated Dixie and kept her going as long as she could, but in November 2013, it was clear that she was no longer the cute puppy that Herbie had adopted. So one evening, after the kids were in bed, the vet came to the house and helped Dixie out of this life and into the next. Rachel, John, and I shed copious tears for our loss.
But we also reminded ourselves of all that Dixie would gain: a reunion with her beloved Herbie, a healthy body to run figure eights, fetch balls, and herd heaven's animals, and a time to wait for the rest of us. My image of heaven is the wooden bridge at Chapman Dam, with Herbie and Dixie waiting for me--and for all of our loved ones--to walk across and be welcomed into God's sunshine with a hug that lasts forever.
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