The Best Dog

When I was a kid we had a couple of dogs. It was mostly my responsibility to care for them, particularly Gypsy, the poodle. I don't remember my dad being particularly interested one way or the other in Gypsy, but I adored her. My mother didn't care for Gyp. She always claimed that a puppy was more work than a human baby, and as soon as we grew up, there were to be no more dogs in her house.

In retirement, my parents disagreed on the issue. Mother won. With the exception of occasional visiting grand-pups in later years, there were no dogs in the house.

But upon Mom's death, after a suitable period of perhaps a month, my dad adopted Peggy.

Peggy was a huge, black lab-shepherd mix, as good natured as could be. She had a fierce bark when the doorbell rang, but we always said that she'd probably end up licking the burglar's hand as he picked through the jewelry.

Peggy was devoted to my father. She kept track of his movements through the house. She woke him up when it was time to move from the chair to the bedroom. She never jumped up on him as he tottered with his cane because she wouldn't want to knock him down.

She was a good dog. The best dog.

She was always happy to see me. I think it's because when Dad had some heart trouble while we were visiting Wyoming, I took care of her. Peggy slept on my bed in the hotel and lived in my car while I sat with Dad in the ICU. I would walk her up to his window to look in so they could see each other. I bonded with Peggy that week and we were best friends from then on.

When Dad died earlier this year, the first question asked by many friends was, "What's going to happen to Peggy?" Our question wasn’t, “What shall we do with her?” It was, “Which of many good homes being offered would be best?”

Peggers was as much the center of conversation as arranging the funeral and other details the week Dad died. At the funeral home, my sibs and I got into a somewhat lengthy conversation about whether Peg should attend the service. Would it be appropriate? Where would she sit? The funeral director finally, tactfully asked, "Who is Peggy?" It must have sounded like Dad had a mistress hidden away and we didn’t know what to do with her.

Last week, after 11 years of bringing happiness to others, Peggy's hip gave out. Surgery, with its inherent discomfort and recovery time seemed a dubious option. Her pain was great and wouldn't respond to medication. Suffering was not to be an option for Peggy and she was released from this life. I don't know exactly what happens to us when we die, but I do believe something happens. And I like the idea of Peggy being reunited with my father, wherever they may be. Mom will just have to tolerate it.

 

(Thanks to Anne Talbot for the photo of a resting Peggy.)