I don't quite look like myself in that shot, do I? Well, I wasn't myself. My dog, Mandy, had been killed that morning, hit by a car. When my granddaughter, Amber, called to ask if she could come out with her new puppy and spend the night, I told her I wouldn't be very good company because I was crying about Mandy being killed. Last weekend when Amber was here, I mentioned this; she said, "I can't believe I brought my puppy out here when your dog just died. That's horrible!" Anyway, look at me in the picture: Face all red, hair in a tangle. Eyes teary. Fake smile. It's a portrait of grief. Why on earth did I have Amber take my picture in such a state? Perhaps I wanted a picture to use in a blog entry, something pleasant I could talk about. To take my mind off my loss. The next day, Amber and her puppy accompanied us to Wayside Waifs: that's where we met Sadie, who insisted on coming home with us. Amber's dog got a lot of attention that day from people adopting waifs. If something should happen to Sadie, I have told Cliff, "Please just let me cry; I am not going straight to the pound to adopt a dog the next day. Give me some time. I might not even want another dog, but I won't know until I try living without one." Not that I'm sorry I got Sadie, mind you. She never fails to pick me up when I'm down. She makes me forget about political disasters and "these tough economic times".
It's been two years now since Mandy, the very young mongrel dog I had raised from a puppy, was hit by a car and killed. She had spent nights with me in my cabin; we had bonded. She had just gotten over her puppy ways and stopped chewing on shoes and woodwork. She was finally coming to me when I called her. When Cliff and I went on walks, or were working outside, Mandy stayed nearby, glad for our company.
Then, just like that, she was gone.
I don't know when I've cried that much.
Cliff wanted to stop the crying, and insisted we go to a shelter and find another dog. I told him that's the wrong thing to do, that you are never supposed to choose a new pet while you're grieving for the old one. He was insistent, and I couldn't help thinking about how cute a puppy can be. I remembered how much fun Mandy was, as a puppy. So I agreed to go dog-shopping.
We went to Wayside Waifs on a Saturday, and there was quite a crowd there waiting to adopt pets. I told the lady at the front desk I wanted to see puppies; she said, "Oh, I've been fostering some half-Chows that will be ready next weekend; you need to see them!"
When our turn came to look at available dogs, a lady directed us to a large room with caged dogs. We walked up and down the aisles looking for puppies. Before we'd found any babies, though, we passed a cage containing a medium-sized dog who, when we paused beside her, rubbed against the confining bars as though trying to get closer to us.
Continuing through the rest of the area, we did find some puppies... very cute ones. Cliff asked what I thought, and I said, "I want to go back and look at that one dog, the one that acted like she wanted to get out of her cage."
We went back. Then we checked out puppies again. Then returned to that one dog I couldn't get out of my mind; that's when I asked someone if we could get a little closer look at the dog.
A lady opened the cage, snapped a leash onto the little female, and led her to a little room, with us following. The door was shut and the dog was released. All she wanted to do was rub against our legs and whine; she seemed so happy to have somebody petting her.
The lady got tears in her eyes.
This was on that dog's cage that day:
She's no more Manchester than I am; I'd be willing to bet that she has at least four breeds in her background, but I wouldn't venture a guess on what those breeds are. I changed her name to Sadie. I've never turned her loose to run the neighborhood as I did Mandy, because I can't stand another untimely death.
I do, however, turn her loose in the pasture when Cliff and I walk. She happily carries a stick around, insisting we take it from her and throw it sometimes.
According to the experts, I went looking for another dog too soon.
But I think Sadie was meant to live here, all along.
Even Cliff loves her (but don't tell him I said so).
Cliff's sister, her husband, and their spoiled little mini-Dachshund have spent a couple of days here; my dog, Sadie, is always happy to have a canine buddy. We found out that if I'd toss the Frisbee for Sadie, Angel pursued her. Sadie growled and Angel barked. See for yourself.
Neither of the animals in that WW post are here now. Mandy, a mongrel puppy I took in and loved as though she were my own child, was hit by a car and died.
Brat, the Arabian horse, just didn't work out for us. He hurt me, really badly. Less than one minute after this picture was taken, Brat reared up and fell over on me, resulting in the biggest bruise I ever had in my life. He was very spirited, and a head-tosser. I'm no horse-trainer, and I shouldn't have been trying to ride him.
As we all know we're supposed to do, I got back on Brat for one final picture. That's the neighbor girl, Anna, riding my Blue. Anyway, while Brat lived here, Mandy would run out to where he was and bark, and then the chase was on. They both enjoyed the game, and I'm so glad I caught pictures once... even though the digital camera I used back then left something to be desired. All this happened two years ago.
My dog, Mandy, died on the highway over a year ago. I have Sadie now, and I love her dearly.
So why do I still go looking for Mandy?
I find myself searching for her at Wayside Waifs every few days. Which is really stupid, since she's buried on the back of our place.
This morning I found her replica. It gave me cold chills, and made me want to go get that puppy now!
Except of course, it wouldn't be Mandy. She wouldn't do the same things Mandy did, or act like her. And I'd always be expecting that, which would be unfair to her.
Yeah, I'm pathetic. And no, we're not going to go get her.
On the left is the real Mandy as a puppy. On the right is her (almost) lookalike, the one I found today.
