It wasn't an accident. It was my fault. She was my charge. I took it for granted, as if she were just another farm dog.
Two and half years ago, we were driving in downtown Statesville when we saw puppies all in a row following their leashed father up the sidewalk. The girls and I squealed and Mike rolled down the window to ask how much she was asking for them. The haggard, young woman said she'd take $40 cash, so Mike promptly parked and walked to the ATM. He gave the puppy to me. She was the only puppy that had ever been exclusively mine.
She was a smooth, honey brindle with blond eyes to match, full of worms and in need of a good home. I did the taking her out for housetraining, not putting it off on the kids. I taught her to sit, and she did it as perfectly as her wiggly backside would allow her, but only for me and Michael, who's grown attached to her, as well.
So, when Michael had to be involved in putting her down, I hurt for him, even as I cried out for my own loss. And Mike, who was ordinarily bothered by her eagerness, was in tears. McKala, too, has recently discovered how genuine her disposition is, no, was. She wasn't aloof, pouty, or spoiled. She was purely sweet, humble, and gentle, especially with the calves and children ...a Pitbull, no less, making her attributes all the more charming and cherished. That she contained her power made her even more attractive.
Her downfall was the racehorse mentality and form she took on as her slender frame ran aside our cars when we exited the property. She truly enjoyed it. Mike's taken measures before by throwing firecrackers from the car window. He's been gone
working so much that the job fell on me… and I procrastinated the chance away. So, you see that this was premature and not simply incidental for a healthy, young animal. She was mine to protect, but I disregarded it, not giving her the time she deserved to prevent her pitiful demise.
Just this week, I'd been talking with Megan about the training classes she and her dog are enrolled in. Still, I let my own priorities stand in the way of training the dangerous habit out of her. So now, everyone is suffering. Three of the older children were in the truck as Dusty, Miranda's boyfriend, was driving them to church and hit her.
He came back in the house and said Miranda needed me down by the bridge. After that, all I heard was "Tootsie.” Mike, who would've been gone on a trip already, jumped in the car directly while I stayed trying to prepare myself. Michael and he put her into our car and drove her to the other side of the field. I walked toward it, beginning to weep, more out of control than I thought I'd be. I had no idea that it would come so hard. I'm practical; I keep my cool in tragedies. But my cool escaped me.
The side door was open, and there she lay on Macklynn's fleece blanket, heaving for air as blood oozed from what was otherwise her God-given permanent smile. Her eyes were confused and pleading. Her fur has always been the smoothest I think I've felt, and I pet it tenderly… and reconciled that her misery had to be taken from her swiftly. So, I stepped away to the end of Mike's trailer waiting for her final moment.
In my outburst, I didn't hear Mike behind me, broken that she had mustered the energy to climb to the back of the car when she saw the weapon. He searched for another way, but not only did we not have the means for invasive surgury, she needed for it to end. So, he ended it, and in those few seconds afterwards, the only solace I had was that it wasn't a child in that wretched state.
As they went to gather shovels and post hole diggers for her burial, I stayed by the barn, still surprised at the emotion that had come over me. I've always been a little nonchalant about the lives of animals. I'd be a liar now, if I didn't admit that I wish she could hold a special guard, as she has here, in heaven until I get there. She was much more of an extension of me than I understood.
As I contemplated, Dusty approached the soft, sunny spot, where the brook meets the creek, that we'd chosen. Still across the drive by the barn, I watched as the three dug. It was an eerily pristine sight, the leaves blowing against the blue sky, the bright green plants and weeds growing all around, while they solemnly dug. I knew how Dusty must be feeling, and I thought it very noble of him to do exactly the right thing alongside the other men.
Rusty, our Beagle, Tootsie's constant playmate, is sitting here after every investigation, and I think he's finally discovered that she is in her grave. His brow is furrowed with his head hung low.
With all the outdoor work, I've thought a couple of times this week of our animals that didn't make it to see Spring. I thanked God in all sincerity for the ones that did. But here my Tootsie is in the ground growing cold. Satan will not have his way of bitterness with me though. I've asked God to forgive me for my negligence, to change and teach me through it. Guilt covers me, but it won't keep me because I have young ones to look after. I haven't even seen them to talk about their own feelings about her.
I pray this unnecessary occurrence sharpens me in how I conduct thoughts and time with my family, that trivialness not numb my senses. So many things "fall into place" for us, but when they don't, we must "make a way" for them. That's what training is, a preparation for what can come or for, more likely, what is coming… whether physical or spiritual attack… awareness to go with a hunch or a bidding to save a life.
Mike had to leave for Oregon; some went on to church; and Memaw and Pop are waiting with the others in the house. I hate this for them, too, since the last time they were here, last fall, 2 of our calves were literally dying.
I've taken a picture of Tootsie’s spilled crimson blood on a heart shaped plant and will remember her moreso by it… because it's the only thing between the blessings of living in a gorgeous day and the cursings of extinquishing the vitality of a gorgeous creature… which could be any one of us… coursing blood or shed blood.
This concludes the chapter of the days with my happy puppy, who has sat with me through some very heavy times. She had a "knowing" to still herself when I was somber. She understood my tone and busied herself around the edges of the pond, warding off percieved threats. She'd tangle with a snake in a heartbeat but would rather submit her underbelly for me to rub. So, that's how I'll remember her every time I look at this big collar she wore that she never quite grew into with her tall, slim, feminine frame that playfully scrubbed her back on the asphalt until the protruding studs wore down. The age old story is found here; we hardly have an idea of the joy that's given us, until it's snatched away.
She was part of my beautiful landscape. I thought I'd raise her into the adulthoods of the kids. I thought we'd age gracefully together. However, Smokey, our black Lab, is already aging, and as I sat with Madalynn on our makeshift beach this evening, he laid up right beside me, reminding me to pet him when I stopped ...glad, I'm sure, that Tootsie wasn't pushing her way in for more than her fair share of affection. If he's good with that, I'm good with that, too. And I can't go without saying that when I came in the house from writing the main body of this, Melody, 11, had cleaned (as her helpful gesture) top to bottom from the weekend of company we'd had. There are only certain times when acts of kindness can mean that much.
No comments:
Post a Comment