Dad's Dog

I don’t particularly dislike dogs. But when my Dad got the 3-year-old, German Shepard-mixed pup almost twelve years ago, I was determined not to bond with the yippy dog that acted like she’d been intravenously pumped with caffeine. It bothered me that such a rambunctious animal was not placed with a family with kids and a yard where it could romp and play. Although my dad referred to her from time to time over the years, I pretty much intentionally forgot she was even in the back yard. And around the time I divorced my second husband, I found I actually preferred cats. The reference to dogs and my ex is purely coincidental. Sort of.

When Dad had his surgery in December, through the process of elimination, I was nominated to feed and water Dad’s dog until he recovered and could do it himself. Arrrgg, I was not pleased but the dog had to eat. Right? BUT, I was determined not to become her newest play date. Not me, I prefer cats. Dad was in the hospital for 3 weeks, and during that time I’d leave Seattle after work on the bus to the Tacoma Dome Park-n-Ride, hustle over to the house to feed and water his dog, then head over to the hospital to see Dad. December was really chilly and after the first week, and I was a bit concerned with her being out in the elements, not to mention, her water bowl kept freezing over which really worried me. After getting a bit of advice from a co-worker, I tossed a large wool pillow I bought at Pet Smart into her digs to keep her warm. I’d come back the next day and find the pillow behind a tree or in the bushes. She and I had a “chat” and it was agreed that she would stop tossin' the pillow, because if she continued her shenanigans she would freeze to death. I figured a blunt approach worked best. The pillow stayed in the doghouse after that. I considered looking into getting her more comfortable accommodations, like the fancy igloo doghouse my sister found online, however Doug, dad’s neighbor, said it would be a waste of money and assured me that after all of these years, the dog was happy with her current living situation. Never dawned on me to ask Dad's dog how she felt about it.

Dad’s had some ups and downs since December and hasn’t quite gotten to the place yet where he feels comfortable taking those stairs that exit the garage to the back yard, in order to feed his dog. He’s afraid of falling, so the care of the pooch has remained in my hands. Yip.

I don’t recall at what point over the last 6 months Dad’s dog started to tug on my heart strings. It was a gradual thing. Could have been the funny way she’d try to recapture some of that spunk from her youth by doing a rain dance around me whenever I’d visit. To out smart her, I’d toss a beggin’ strip across the yard and when she’d romp to grab it I’d jog down the stairs and jump over some fallen tree branches to get to her water and food bowl before she'd finished her snack, so I could refill them. Fait Accompli without being licked to death. I’m very clever.

Dad called me on my way home from work yesterday and asked, “Are you on the bus?” I said yes. “Well, Pepper died.” Oh. I think I said it out loud. Not sure. I held back until I’d made it to my car. Then I cried all the way home. I wish I'd bought her the igloo dog house.

I walked in the front door and slipped on some rubber gloves. I had to check her for myself. I picked up the bag of beggin’ treats sitting on the dryer. Just in case. I found her lying behind a huge oak, as if she were sleeping. She liked to lay there sometimes because it offered shade on hot days. One touch and I knew, and I cried some more. I tossed the dog treats in the garbage on the way into the kitchen. My 'ole dog was past minding.

Her name was Pepper. One of the sweetest tempered pooches I've ever had the honor of knowing. And I'll miss her.