Ordinarily, I wouldn't post a second blog on the same day. I'm just not that interesting. But after my ranting on the cold this afternoon, I spoke to my father on the phone. His dog Lucy, who was very old, died on Monday, in her sleep, at his feet. She was doted upon most of her life.
I say most, because she came to my father when she was 1 or 2 years of age. Someone dropped her. She was a chihuahua/terrier mix. A tiny little thing. And someone dropped her and left her to die on our rural country street. She raided the neighbors crab pots. He would have shot her, but my father showed up and rescued the little black and white dog. At first he offered her to my sister and her family, but she decided she did not want her. Samantha, my niece, who was 3 at the time, and is now 20, named the dog Lucy first though. But my father took the dog back.
He already had a dog, Nickie. Nickie was a toy poodle. He and Lucy got along great though. And soon Lucy and Nickie were both traveling everywhere with my father. If he went into a store or a restaurant, he actually left his keys in the ignition, with the air blowing, taking the clicker with him, so that the dogs remained comfortable. Nickie passed away a few years ago. Leaving Lucy as the sole benefactor of my father's affection. Well, not counting his human family of course.
My father has always been something of a Dr. Doolittle when it comes to animals. At one point I began to believe that people were dropping their animals in our yard on purpose, knowing that my father would care for them and the animal would prefer him to their sorry existence at whatever home they were expelling said animal from. And even dogs that had perfectly good homes seemed to prefer my father. At least two of the series of animals that became ours were neighbors' dogs first, Reuben, a Australian Cattle Dog, and the love of my teen years, Sam, a big brutish St. Bernard.
And then there was Daisy. Daisy never became our dog. She belonged to my father's cousin. He was a hunter. He subscribed to the theory that if you starve the dogs, they will be hungry and hunt better. But Daisy had pups. She broke free of her pen, and came limping into our yard, so starved she could barely stand, and teats so swollen they dragged the ground. My father fed her. She continued to come to us every day. She gained weight. One day, my father was in the yard playing with Daisy. His cousin drove past and put two and two together. He stopped in the middle of the road and yelled out the truck window at my daddy to stop feeding his dog. My father never cared much for this particular cousin. And this was just a little too much. It was the first time I ever heard him use the "f" word. He squared his shoulders, threw back his head and told his cousin, "Any f'n dog that you have that comes into my yard will f'n get fed, since you don't feed them yourself. f off." Wow. The cousin drove away. No more about feeding Daisy. But she stopped coming around once her pups were weaned.
And it wasn't just dogs. Cats. Horses. Our pony Ginger followed my daddy around like she was a puppy herself. Followed him right into the house one day. My mother had a fit. My sister and I thought it was hysterical.
And now, my father's only surviving dog has passed away. He has no more animals at home. And he is a little sad tonight.
Rest in peace Lucy. Your daddy misses you.
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