Highway 27 heading into Dayton, Tennessee is a fast-moving
ride, but last Friday afternoon my eyes were drawn to a corner of the road
where a big white tent was cast over the tailgate of an old pick-up
truck. And in the shade it provided a few people were gathered, inspecting furry bundles in a cage. I quickly worked
out in my head this enterprise was the most basic puppy adoption, and I tried to unsee this random and worrisome sight as I moved onwards
to my final destination.
~~~~~
William rolled in early that evening after closing out his
2015 summer camp job. Instead of going to ATL for a last hurrah with the Laney
boys, he had decided to come on home. We passed each other like the Incline Railway at the door, he coming in and I heading out, and all was well. 15 minutes
later, William called to tell me that Smokey, our 12-year-old corgi, had a seizure
in the front yard. This came from out of the blue, and it did not occur to me
right away that ordinary Friday was the last day of life with our little dog.
And from there, Smokey’s life wound down with another
seizure that carried our beloved boy away, leaving no doubt about the outcome. And even after having had prior
experience saying goodbye to another fine corgi, two orange cats and a hamster--William
and Annabelle’s growing up pets—it was terrible finally leaving the last one
behind.
~~~~~
Smokey and Georgie were Cardigan Welsh Corgis who had each
flown on Delta jets right into our family from an Oklahoma breeder. (The
children always thought the dogs came from a mysterious place called Homa-homa, and I
never told them differently). Georgie arrived in 1999 to save three-year-old
William from his big fear of dogs (it worked), and Smokey was a gift of
companionship for Georgie. It was love at first sight for Smokey; even though we
claimed he belonged to us, in the decade they were together he was always resolutely
Georgie’s boy. Along the way, the corgis got divided along party lines with Georgie being Annabelle’s official dog, and Smokey was William’s.
Across the years, Smokey had a knack for tricking the Grim
Reaper. When he was very little, he ate a rock and had surgery to remove it.
Within days of returning home, he marched right back out into the yard and
found another rock. The second surgery was bigger, and the vet thought Smokey
was going to die. At her recommendation for a last-ditch effort to save him, we
brought a lifeless corgi home and placed him on the sofa. With strict
instructions to encourage and not let on that we thought he was going to
d-i-e, it was all baby talk and rainbows for the sick little guy. And it all
worked out fine because that was 11 years ago.
Smokey and Georgie once collaborated on a daring jailbreak,
digging out under the backyard fence, together
crossing the busy thoroughfares of Howell Mill and Northside Drive to reach the
ever-exciting West Paces Ferry Road several miles away. A morning commuter
found them in the street inspecting a squirrel and kindly delivered them to the closest
vet office, which also happened to be ours. An Invisible Fence soon usurped any
dreams they had about traveling again.
Smokey and Georgie grew up right along with William and
Annabelle, pretty much seeing them through preschool, elementary, middle and
high school. Our dogs did the same wonderful things everyone
else’s pets do, allowing us to love them and returning the favor.
They were smart, good natured and entertaining little creatures, each with his own fascinating
and predictable idiosyncrasies. It was also particularly exciting when we had a
strong winter because corgis are really cute plowing through the
snow.
In 2013, we sadly said goodbye to the great Georgie when he
became paralyzed, and Smokey was never really as happy living his life without
him.
In June, Smokey took up his old hobby, once again eating something and receiving the Last Rites. At 12 ½ years of age, the vet at first thought
the obstruction this time was cancer and recommended Smokey should not awaken from surgery if things looked dire on the inside. William,
Annabelle and I were a big mess as we said our pre-op tearful farewells to our little dog lying
in a crate with IV in his leg.
Alas, this time it was only a suction cup blocking his
intestines, and Smokey lived yet again. Annabelle went with me to pick up Smokey following surgery and, ever the pragmatist, on the way home remarked, “Well,
you know what this means. We’ll just have to do this day all over again.” And
she was exactly right.
I vowed to make Smokey’s life as splendid as possible for a senior
dog whose big joy in life came from sitting at the window or on the front
porch, waiting to bark at our next door neighbor coming home from work, a passing runner, or the jackpot of a dog being
walked. I thought about getting Smokey a suit of clothes, but William sent me a
text, “NO!!!” Smokey despised going for walks, but since all the finer dogs around
do that, I borrowed a leash and he refused to move, except right back in the
front door to his chair. Benevolence was all around as Annabelle even gave Smokey a bath
one day. And I was back to all baby talk and rainbows with him once again. In our
gift of additional time, we really did try to upgrade his life, mostly much to
his chagrin.
All of it went by so quickly, the children and the dogs
growing up together. I am forever thankful we had our two corgis there all along the way with William and Annabelle. I am glad for the
richness, the fun and good company they brought to all our lives. I will always
miss our boys--most especially the two of them together--their big ears and short legs, and maybe even the early morning
barking.
I hope the people up in Dayton who found puppies beside the
road last Friday afternoon will have the wonderful lives with their new family
members that we did with Smokey and Georgie, the boys from Homa-homa.
Snoozing in The Promised Land
He was a good boy
