Sally Anne at age 16: A happy last summer. I am a dog woman; when I was little I would ask for a dog every birthday and Christmas, which resulted in many toy animals and dog-shaped purses. I didn't understand why we couldn't have a dog. What seven-year-old girl understands landlords and rental agreements?
When I was 10 my mother promised my sister and I that we could get a dog once we moved into our own house. In July of 1991 we found a house halfway between Placerville and Coloma in northern California, underneath a copse of black oak. I already had a barn cat; he was a temperamental orange tabby with the oxymoronic name of Cuddles. My sister Beth was keen for a kitty of her own, so we went to the Humane Society and found Cinnamon, the tortoiseshell wonder. Also at the Humane Society that day was a black and white puppy who had just been tossed out of a truck on Highway 50, probably the unplaceable last of a litter.
She followed each of us around, my mother, sister, and I, while we looked at the cats. She sit on each of our feet in turn and looked up at us with her powder blue eyes. I tried not to pet her too much, because I didn't want to get attached; Mom had not yet said anything about getting a dog.
Half an hour later I saw my mother scoop up the puppy like a baby and carry her around, as she looked at posters about distemper and pet adoption. The puppy listened when my mother crooned softly to her, and the pink-and-black nose pointed over at me from time to time.
She followed each of us around, my mother, sister, and I, while we looked at the cats. She sit on each of our feet in turn and looked up at us with her powder blue eyes. I tried not to pet her too much, because I didn't want to get attached; Mom had not yet said anything about getting a dog.
Half an hour later I saw my mother scoop up the puppy like a baby and carry her around, as she looked at posters about distemper and pet adoption. The puppy listened when my mother crooned softly to her, and the pink-and-black nose pointed over at me from time to time.
I felt my heart hammer in my throat.
"Remember when I said when we have a house we could get a dog? How about this little girl here?" Mom asked once she caught my eye.
I burst into tears. Next to me, Beth held the yet-to-be-named Cinnamon and cried too.
We brought home Sally Anne later that day after she'd gone to the vet for her shots. My mother named her so because when she was young her grandparent's outhouse was called the Sally, rather than the John. She figured we would have a lot of puppy poo to pick up and named the little girl appropriately. It was a cute name to fit a cute puppy. She charmed everyone, with her pink potbelly and gentle face. We even had offers from strangers to buy her when we took her for walks.
We brought home Sally Anne later that day after she'd gone to the vet for her shots. My mother named her so because when she was young her grandparent's outhouse was called the Sally, rather than the John. She figured we would have a lot of puppy poo to pick up and named the little girl appropriately. It was a cute name to fit a cute puppy. She charmed everyone, with her pink potbelly and gentle face. We even had offers from strangers to buy her when we took her for walks.
Once, when our mother went into Lucky's grocery, Beth and I sat out with Sally Anne on the sidewalk. A bagger came out with a cottage cheese container filled with water for her, and absentmindedly stroked Sally's head for the duration of his break.
Sally Anne lived with us and made us laugh for nearly sixteen years. She passed away in October of 2006, and though it was sad, it was also joyful because it was a release from her ailing earthly body. She was fat and happy and she was ready. It was the gentlest letting go I have ever experienced.
Sally Anne lived with us and made us laugh for nearly sixteen years. She passed away in October of 2006, and though it was sad, it was also joyful because it was a release from her ailing earthly body. She was fat and happy and she was ready. It was the gentlest letting go I have ever experienced.
Since then, I have found that old dogs are charming, sweet, and full of personality. Sally herself became so sure that she was going to get blankets, cushions, walks, and treats that she shuffled about the house and garden as if she were a queen.
And she was. During the last year of her life we gave her everything she wanted. Shelby Sue deferred to her and lead her about as if she were Sally's "hearing ear dog," for Sally was quite deaf by 14. Shelby even stole fritters we brought back to Wyoming from Apple Hill in California, and we are sure that Sally gobbled them up with relish. They were quite the partners in crime.
Yesterday, my sister brought her friend's dog Lido over for a visit. The sweet, fat old girl was red and honey colored, her face ghosted with gray. She rode in the car as if she were being chauffeured, just like Sally did.
Today I found two sweet features about old dogs. Old Dogs Are the Best Dogs is a photo excerpt from an upcoming book of the same name by Gene Weingarten and Michael S. Williamson. The readers and writers at WowOwoW (a women's online magazine) also shared photos of their beloved dogs at Readers Bow to Their Old Dogs.
I'll admit that I cried at both. Bobo at wOw has my heart the most, because he reminds me most of Sally Anne in demeanor and pose. They are all sweet old pups.
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