How much is that doggie in the window?

Dearest Blog Reader.

 

I hope that this finds you doing well. The fact that it finds you at all is a cautionary tale to us all. Always give your calendar makers plenty of resources because if they ever stop their task before completion, it will provide unending speculation amongst the masses who have traded their religious opiates for modernity. I am sorry for the bah humbug but I had been counting on this apocolypse. I maxed out the cards. I made other promises about extravagant gifts being in the mail. Now, the day of reckoning has arrived. By the way, your truffles are on the way. I would stay by the mailbox on Monday.

 

Thankfully, Christmas is nearly here. Bev, the master confectioner, and I, master thermomeister, have nearly completed our annual caramel making extravaganza; 2.5 gallons whipping cream, 10 lbs of surgar, 5 lbs of butter, and one gallon of corn syrup (that's right high fructose corn syrup). I believe that makes us one of the 10 most wanted in New York City. Mayor Bloomberg, paraphrasing the words of that great American Charlton Heston, you can take my caramel when you pry it out of my cold dead hand, or you could just say please. We still have a few left that we can share.

 

The Sharritt's have some sad news this Christmas season. Lucy, our dog of 13 years has disappeared. She was last seen Thursday morning as I left for work. I woke every couple hours Thursday night checking the door hoping that she had made her way home. She had been on a sinking trajectory for the past year. Her hips hurt her. She also suffered from worsening incontinence. I had been wondering about a couple of things as I witnessed her decline.

 

First, would she last until May? We decided to clip her hair every summer three years ago. The first trip to the groomer cost $50. That was a bit much I thought. As a result, I bought a $100 pair of clippers. I know that is a bit pricey, but she had extremely fine thick Golden retriever hair. I cut her hair two years ago. Rather, I tried to cut her hair two years ago. I quit after two hours of struggle leaving her with a style my family liked to call “the mange”. I got better this past May. She looked pretty good and kept cool. Also, my do it yourself accounting broke even; $100 pair of clippers = 2 $50 haircuts. This year I would break into the clear and prove certain mange taunting naysayers wrong. In May though, I knew that she was living on borrowed time. It was unlikely that she would be able to keep her next appointment with the barber of Fortville.

 

Second, and more important, was a question that I had since I was about twelve. Do dogs really go off to die alone? That is what my dad told me when Fritzi, a collie cross from my childhood, disappeared while I was at school in the fall. As I grew older and wiser to the ways of the world, I thought that my father may have taken matters into his own hands, eliminating tears and awkward explanations. It appears that the wivestale is true. Lucy was here Thursday morning and out of our life Thursday night. Dad you are off the hook.

 

Lucy came to us the fall of 1999. George W. had just been elected and not inaugurated. She was approximately 7 months old when she was abandoned at a pond on our farm. Her family of origin must have felt some guilt as evidenced by the blanket that they left for her.

 

I came across her during the evening of a hayride. Millie, a charpei cross, made her acquaintance. She trotted in front of the tractor as we made our way through the field. It was a bit unnerving. I left the tractor lights off because the customers liked it dark and Lucy was a minimalist who only needed to be a step or two in front of the tractor. She didn't get run over, but she kept me worried. We weren't in the market for a new dog. Millie was enough for us, and our farm family budget could be stretched too far with a second vet bill. All temptation was overcome. No petting was allowed. No notice was taken. However, two nights later at the next hayride, she was still there; still trotting in front of the tractor. Dog love took over and the Sharritt's became a two dog family.

 

It is impossible to recall all of the Lucy moments from the farm. She loved to trot down the road beside the tractor when I went to the wood lot to cut firewood. This caused problems when approached by oncoming traffic on our narrow country road. By and large, the fellow travelers showed great patience and a little ammusement at a dog who thought she owned the road.

 

She was a fierce hunter who teamed up with a couple of Jack Russel Terriers to nearly rid the farm of groundhogs during her heyday. After every kill, the spoils of war were brought to the house and shared by these three amigos. One day, I watched the kill and went back to work only to witness Lucy carrying the groundhog feast with one Jack Russel hanging off each end. Their short stature inadequate for the distance between Lucy's head and the ground.

 

To those she nipped, I apologize. She would let you come to the front door if you took the moment to pay homage to her authority by letting her sniff your hand. As sure as your fear prevented that act of supplication, she would nip at your hindend as you evaded her challenge. I apologize to everyone except the FedEx guy. You are just a big wussy.

 

She was the last farm dog for the Sharritt’s. I could never confine her. She had 200 acres to roam, and if she chose to wander across the road to Ingalls, I chose not to chasten her footloose excursions. If she is replaced, that replacement will suffer the indignities of heeling to an invisible fence.

 

The thing that strikes me most about Lucy's passing is that it has triggered a flood of memories of the dogs in my life. Some were mine. Some were my parents. Some were my cousins. Some were  fictional; Fritzie, Goober, Mutley, Big Red, Charlie, Big Dan, Little Annie, Millie, Roscoe, Katie, Lucy, Hugo, Henry, and Ole Yellar.

 

I miss my dog.

 

Take care.

 

Roger