Found

We are dog people, firmly agreeing that a house needs a dog to really be a home.  We are the children of dog people.  My parents have always had at least one dog, and usually two, and my in-laws are the same way.  This is the bitter-sweet story of one of their dogs.

When he was a freshman at a local community college, The Husband worked overnights at the motel which his dad managed, and lived at home with his parents.   It was a small town, quiet all the time, and silent in the middle of the night.   One hot, late summer–but not yet fall–night, The Husband heard a pathetic whining coming from the parking lot of the motel.  He looked out and saw a miserable looking dog.  She was so covered in mange she had almost no hair, and he could not identify her breed.  Her ribs stood out, looking like the eaves of a house, from her poor frail body.  She was trying to drink from the iridescent rainbow of an oil tainted puddle.

Because he was the kind person he has always been, The Husband put a bowl of cool water by the door and scrounged up some leftovers from the take-out dinner he had as his shift began.  He watched her all night through the bay windows of the motel office.  He noted she had no tag, and her body was weak from a long trek.  He told himself if she was still there when his shift ended, he would take her home.  As his overnight shift ticked into morning, and the huge sky turned pink over the rice field across the highway, my darling husband lifted the dog into the back seat of his car and headed home.

“Mom? If I tell you something, do you promise not to be mad?”

“What did you do?”

“Just promise first.”

“How bad is it?”

“Go look in the back yard.”

“WHAT IS IT!?”

“She was going to die in the parking lot of the motel, I had to bring her home.”

“She looks like she is going to die here in a minute.”

My Husband is as kind as he is to animals because of who raised him.  MMiL would never say no to an animal who needed help–and this one REALLY needed help.  After a trip to the vet to procure mange shampoo, and months worth of scrubbing and feeding and recovering–it was determined the dog was a two year old, purebred dalmatian!  Her spots grew in as did her spot in the Huckablog family.   They named her Alexandria, Alex or Allie for short, and she fell into an easy life of love and kindness, and a family which soon included another stray dog, and even a cat.  Alex walked on a trail everyday with MMiL getting exercise and protecting MMiL from any creeps who might cross their path.  The Husband moved away, as did BiL.   The dogs stayed with The Elder-but not old-Huckablogs and helped fill the void.

Ten years passed, June 2006.  The Husband, BiL, and I were at the Elder-but not old-Huckablogs house for a visit.  Alex was having a hard time walking.  She seemed confused, lethargic, and could not get her legs to work correctly.  Perhaps a stroke?  We all gave her extra pats as we prepared to leave, and I was sure we would not be seeing her again.  I was wrong.  MMiL nursed her back to health.  She got well enough to go live at the compound, she got to meet a baby who loved to stare at her lovely black spots, and later sneak her treats.  She chased furry, gray squirrels and rested with FFiL as he recovered from his heart attack in the lovely countryside.

This summer Alex was just not Alex anymore.  Her body was healthy because of all those miles walked on trails with MMiL, but her mind–it was simply gone.  On Wednesday Allie was put to sleep.  She is now resting under the Sweet Gum tree in our backyard next to Polly.

Having just had death explained to him because of our fish, Sushi IV, The Son stated it best, “I am sad because I will miss her, but Awex is happy now, right Mama?”

She is happy, and not in pain, and had twelve really, really good years she never would have had if not for a sweet, 18 year old boy, and an understanding mother.

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