Last month, a few days after my sweet Nellie died, I took a detour at the animal shelter through stray dogs. Small dogs and puppies are housed in a room near strays where potential adopters view the pups from a windowed hallway and subsequently fall in love at first sight. And that’s where I first saw her.
Now don’t get me wrong. I don’t need another dog. Nellie is irreplaceable, as are all my pets. But I remembered a cute adoption dog I’d seen recently and thought I’d stop and say hello. Turns out he’d already been adopted, but as I went to leave, there in the last run sat a tiny red dog politely staring back at me with equally tiny eyes. Her kennel card said “Phoebe.”
Phoebe’s feet and chest are white, with a stripe running from her nose to the top of her head and with ears far too big for her. In a word — adorable. So I said, “Well, who are you?” Not a peep escaped her mouth, which, by the way, sports an overbite. Still, she inched forward, her fluffy tail swaying back and forth like one of those feather dusters.
My dog died Monday.
Now don’t get me wrong; this won’t be a sad post that leaves you in tears. This is supposedly a humor blog, although admittedly there’s nothing funny about losing my 13 1/2-year-old Greyhound, Nellie (a.k.a. Nervous Nellie, Whoa Nellie and Naughty Nellie). Her time simply ran out. But it comforts me to know she had a long, wonderful life and left me with great memories.
Yes, 2019 isn’t promising to be my favorite year, having also lost my cat, Tippi, last month. Still, death reconfirms the importance of appreciating what and who we have in our lives while we have them. In addition, the day Nellie died I attended the funeral of Mama Lou (my friend Sharon’s mom) whom I’ve known for 43 years. So yeah, not exactly an uplifting start to the new year. But the sun will come out tomorrow.
Let me repeat: My pets are weirdos.
So what does that say about me? After all, I’m the common denominator. Now don’t get me wrong; that doesn’t mean I think Nellie, Callie, Skip, Wally, Oliver, Savannah, Tippi and Jack are flawed. Quite the contrary. They may be odd but they provide endless entertainment through their weirdness. And anyway, aren’t we all a little odd? Therefore, I’ll gladly take credit for their, shall we say, “unique qualities.”
As you all know, Nellie eats poop so I’m used to that weird trait of hers. But another thing she does (when she thinks I’m not looking) is to leap onto the bed immediately after I’m done making it. She gathers the sheets and comforter into a tiny mountain in the middle of the bed, then plops herself on it and promptly takes a nap. A particularly annoying weirdness…
Rather proud of herself
Here’s a post from May, 2013 that I barely remember, so I bet you don’t either. Give it a go…I’m just a week or so away from penning a new post. Until then, enjoy reading about Nellie…
Since you’ve met the rest of my furry family, why not meet the whole brood? Last, but certainly not least is Nellie, my 8-year-old Greyhound. She’s my sofa zombie. Many people think this breed is hyper, but those people would be wrong. Greyhounds are also known as 45-mph couch potatoes. Continue reading
I have two words for you: LAKE TAHOE. That means I didn’t get any writing done this week. But here’s a post from 2012 that you won’t remember because, well, it was 6 years ago! Happy reading…
There are few things of which I’ve been certain. I’m the queen of indecisiveness. Mexican or Italian for dinner? Hmm…maybe Italian? Wear the beige or blue skirt? I guess the beige? What color should we paint the house? Don’t even go there.
In fact, one decision that actually came easy for me was to adopt our buff-colored Cocker Spaniel, Tequila. I suppose, to be truthful, it wasn’t actually my decision. Knowing my history and the fact that I would waver between dogs for days, my husband picked her and I nodded in agreement and relief. Good choice, Jim.
We had good intentions from the get-go and decided not to feed her fattening table scraps. We bought the best dog food we could find and congratulated ourselves on not giving in to those pleading brown eyes under the dinner table.