|
|
|
A SHELTIE NAMED BEAR He was Peter Pan personified, dogified: courageous, playful, spirited, protective, impish -- a gallant rascal. And he was deaf. But never deaf to me. What he lacked in hearing he made up for in sight, heart, and instinctive working-dog intelligence. He was as alert to my every gesture and nuance of emotion as he was to movements of the sheep and goats he watched from his own side of the fence.He had been a Rescue Sheltie -- a tri-color, cuddly-eared, sturdy little charmer called Bear because he looked like one. He literally bounced with joy at mealtime. When I offered a biscuit, he would sit and wait for my lips to move, "Look cute." Then he would hold up his left paw until I lowered the treat. Laurie O’Brien of the Northern California’s Sheltie Rescue team matched us up. Bless her for that. Shelties had been the dogs I’d loved best for more than forty years. My other Shelties had died of old age, but I was more content during the four short years I spent with Bear than at any other time in my life. Under his caring canine eye, I did some of my best writing and teaching. Maybe that’s because Bear saw to it that I stayed balanced. He would coax me out to play when he decided I’d been at the computer too long. One evening he failed to bounce for his dinner. A few days later, he turned away from his food entirely. Blood tests indicated anemia. But he was only eleven, and I was certain his symptoms could be alleviated by liver, turkey, vegetables, and a good dose of B-12. They weren’t. X-rays revealed a mass in his liver and spleen. Ultra-sound went deeper: cancer had spread to his lungs. Through it all, he hadn’t even whimpered! His last act, weak as he was, was to protect me as we waited in foyer of the vet’s office. He had indulged in some friendly sniffing with an Australian blue merle, then was leaning against my leg when a big black dog marched in, owner in tow, and strained toward Bear. I instinctively tightened up. Sensing my tension, my little hero gathered what energy he could muster, stood up, growled, and barked the intruder away. Bear died in my arms that day -- softly, serenely, trusting that two wet-eyed humans – doctor and ‘master’ -- would do the right thing. It was hard coming home knowing he wouldn’t be at the gate to greet me and race around the yard to show how happy he was that we were together again. I buried him in my garden. In time, grief will lessen. Maybe I’ll even get matched up with another plucky little Sheltie. Meanwhile, I can love the innate Sheltiness of every Shetland Sheepdog who graces my life -- until it’s my turn to die. Then, if I’m very, very lucky, I’ll be allowed to go wherever the Shelties go -- and play with them all, happily ever after. That would be my idea of Heaven. Elayne Wareing Fitzpatrick
|
|
|
