ABBY LIKED TO CURL UP in a good bed, whether that was under the covers with us on cold nights in her younger days or in the cuddly Snoopy dog bed she preferred in her later years or in one of the numerous other dog beds in — I’m now realizing — just about every room of our house. Often it was for a nap but sometimes it was just the most comfortable post from which to survey her queendom.
It’s a comfort to me, then, to know her final resting spot is such a good one. From the back corner of our happy acre, just below the bluebird house on the post and in the ever-expanding shade of our pecan tree, she can look across the back of our property and up to our house. In the spring, she’ll have the company of our annual patch of bluebonnets to remind her of rebirth and nature’s beauty.
She’s a careful distance from the pool, a place she never quite took to, but with a view that at any given moment might include one of the family enjoying the shade of the back porch. And she’s in the company, within gossiping distance really, of our previous beloved pets, pups Tricksy and Chevy and parakeets Max and Pudge. And she’s likely to see Momma-Lori tossing the ball with Brutha-pooch Rocky.
Most of all, she’ll see me because this is where I spend a good chunk of my days, spring or fall, summer or winter. The pool is my calm-down oasis after workdays. Sometimes I’m stalking hummingbirds or the moon with my camera. Often I’m doing the landscaper’s paradoxical dance, urging things to grow where they won’t or cutting things where they won’t stop growing. Knowing she’s there now, though, I expect to tramp my way back toward her corner around sunset, lingering in that magic moment before day becomes night.
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Abby was born Sept. 24, 2003, a Libra like me. It’s possible I know more about her lineage than I do my own. Her mom was Dot’s Barkley, whose parents were Mag’s Dot and Button Top Bill. Abby’s dad was Deuce, whose parents were Rosie and Seagull Elliott. I have official charts that go beyond that, showing a whole lot of doggo begetting — and who can blame them with names like Seagull Elliott. All that pure blood is probably the main reason Abby carried herself like royalty from the moment she crossed our threshold.
2004
Not on the chart but important lineage-wise is Lori’s grandma — known far and wide as Grandma B — whose home we were visiting when we met Abby. It was love at first sight, and Abby came to live with us as a weeks-old puppy. She lived until almost age 18 and could have passed for a young pup until the end.
We discovered early on that, before beds, she liked napping on my legs. She also liked to be chased, nibbled her food instead of making a meal of it, wasn’t a fan of being held, DID NOT like cats (and had a good memory of where they lived in the neighborhood), and did not suffer fools gladly. We also discovered that we were smitten with her.
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She was the constant in our lives as jobs became careers, as our kids became teenagers then collegians then career-minded adults themselves.
And as parent-child roles were flipped. Grandpa Brown came to live with us — or with the dogs, to be more accurate — at age 86. Five-plus years later, I firmly believe that their relationship added years to their already long lives. About that time, Abby developed a prancing trot, leading Grandpa to call her “Abby Whiskers Hop-along Brown,” which was often followed by, “She’s just a-hopping along.”
Our kids now have their own fur families, meeting Aunt Abby a few times. It cheers us even as the sorrow of our loss still washes over us. We also take quiet comfort in our sweet Rocky, our border collie who has the brain of a civil engineer, the heart of a child, but the nervous system of a wet noodle. How sad to see him absorb Abby’s passing.
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Toward the end of her life, Abby developed an enlarged heart, lost most of her hearing, and (in the last months) had trouble seeing. Still she pranced. She handled her deteriorating situation better than most humans, welcoming our helping hands but never demanding them. As I approach my seventh decade, saying “huh” and “come again” more frequently yet with a lot of prancing left in my own legs, I will take Abby’s strength and character to heart.
I love my sweet Abby. And I miss her.
