The boys from Homa-homa

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.

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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.

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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