A FANCY BLOG

I haven¹t written much about the death of my well much loved dog, Boy, Mostly because I¹m not sure what to say – or even how much I can say before the tears start to blur the words. I¹m not a big crier by nature, but losing Boy was hard to take. I try not to dwell on him, but he was special.  As one friend wrote of him:

“I loved Boy and I don¹t like dogs as a rule. I always felt that he was happy to see me when I came to visit.  I¹m not sure that this is possible, but I felt like he was smiling at me.”

For Boy, it was possible.

But this Blog is not an elegy.  Boy has moved on.  It was kind of a race between us – who would die first and who would be left to grieve. I want to believe that he is better off where he waits for me now than he would have been if I left him. But the huge hole he left in my heart. While it cannot be filled, it had to be dealt with, and so, with the advice and counsel of Jay, a sympathetic friend and major dog lover, ­ I visited a rescue place that specialized in mostly small dogs.

There were many, many, adorable little dogs Some frisky, and almost all adorable.  Of course, once there, I was swamped by an overwhelming urge to bring them all home with me. Is there any dog not in need of love?

My eyes suddenly fell on one dog. A not very pretty dog I admit, but with a sporty little under-bite and blessed with soulful eyes that seemed to follow me as I walked around the room, there was something about her. I just couldn’t put my finger on it. She was older than most of the other, more eager dogs, but even in dog years she was not as old as me. And I admit this reluctantly, I have always had this shallow need to have a beautiful pup that passersby would stop and admire as I walked by.

So I kept looking.

There was an adorable, frisky little curly haired guy that danced all around me for a couple of minutes, but then he fixated on Jay,  Jay already had his adoring brood, so I continued my search.

But there was, is, something about the sad looking old girl. who sat contentedly in the arms of one of the foster folks who kept drawing me back. Every time I glanced her way, I saw staring at me imploringly with her big brown eyes.

I asked the foster mom, who obviously loved the dog, if I could hold the little girl.

I knew it would happen.  I knew that once I held her I wouldn¹t, couldn¹t, let go.

And I was right!

And that something I couldn’t put my finger on? I realized right away what that something was. This dog needed me.  Maybe even more than I needed her.

I call her Fancy  after a  character in one of my daughter¹s books. That Fancy is a huge Buzzard with a broken wing who turned out to be one of the book¹s most popular characters.

Fancy is home with me now.  She is smart. I¹s been only a week, but she has settled in to the rhythms of the Tiny House.  She has almost mastered the idea of not wetting on the outdoor carpet although she obviously prefers it to the back garden.  She recognizes me as the source of food and fluffy pillows on which to sleep at night, and I have so far NOT learned to insist she stay in her own bed instead of mine.

She still has her jaunty under-bite, and her body is a bit too long for her head.

FANCY She is still not the prettiest girl in town.  But she¹s a great cuddler and she sleeps late.

She¹s my girl and I love her and she loves me.

And when you get right down to it – that¹s what¹s important.

I know my Boy would be happy for us.