My Dog

Dee and Dixie in 2002

From the moment she came into our home, she was my dog.  Better said, in that wonderful and mysterious ways dogs bond to humankind, I was her guy.  Linda and I had, not long before, returned from a twentieth wedding anniversary trip to New York.  While we were gone, our golden retriever, Rusty, well up in years, had wandered away yet again, but this time did not come home.  Linda and the kids decided that we needed a replacement for the empty place Rusty left in our family circle, so, in September of 2002, they surprised me by bringing a beautiful buff rescued puppy home in our lilac Dodge Grand Caravan.  I was on the cordless phone when they pulled into the garage.  I was so struck by this little girl that I put the receiver on top of the van to free both arms for puppy holding.  I suppose we were all a bit ga-ga about the puppy.  That receiver rode around on top of the van for a week, drowning electronically in a rain storm.

I thought we might name this spunky chunky little ball of fur Daisy, but my children, especially my daughter, Elizabeth, who was into all things southern and cowboy-ish overturned my decision and proclaimed the name to be Dixie.  It stuck.

Asleep on the hearth amid stuffed animals

Though we enjoyed those first few weeks with Dixie living in the house (she only had one accident though a small puppy), she soon let it be known that she wanted to live as an outdoor dog.  We lived in Traveler's Rest in the foothills of South Carolina, on a two-acre lot that gave her plenty of room to roam and, more in line with her perceived life calling, patrol.  Dixie was a working dog, constantly on guard to protect her peeps.  Time and again, she brought us creatures she had captured and killed, other animals she deemed to be illegal aliens on her homestead.  Several times we found her near the house, proudly keeping vigil over the now lifeless body of a groundhog.  I found her gnawing on a deer leg one day, a left over, I hope, from a hunter field dressing his kill.  One day, I found a black cat in the yard, body intact but neck broken as though by a trained assassin.  With no collar or wallet on the cat, I decided to dispose of the body and avoid an investigation.

The boys and I were coming up the driveway in my green Mazda pickup truck.  Dixie ran alongside the truck to welcome us home then, inexplicably, ran in front of it.  The three of us heard that terrible thud of a truck wheel running over something, then saw Dixie rolling around beside the driveway in pain.  She had cut in front of the right front tire which broke both bones in her left front leg.  This was a Saturday, so we all jumped in the van and hurried to the veterinary emergency clinic.  Dixie was a brave girl, that is, until the surgeon entered the room.  Dixie tucked her head under Linda's arm to hide from him.  She gained a metal rod and several screws in that leg and I learned that even a rescued dog is far from free.  Dixie's bionic leg, as we called it, cost more than all four tires on my truck.

To be as brave as she was most of the time, Dixie had a unique assortment of fears, other than veterinary surgeons from Ireland.  She had no use for bodies of water.  We had a pond in front of our house in Traveler's Rest, but she would not stick a paw in it.  She was very afraid of thunderstorms and would scratch at the door and cry to come in when the thunder rolled.  Gunshots and fireworks were on her fear list as well.  She spent many a New Year's Eve and July 4th huddled up next to me.

She was not afraid of passing vehicles.  Dixie would sometimes follow our cars to the end of the driveway, then bark and lunge at cars coming by.  I don't know how she avoided being hit or causing an accident.  Luckily, neither happened.  She was, as she saw it, taking care of her family.

We often took walks at Green Valley's golf course which was practically across the street from our home.  Dixie loved to walk with us, but not on a leash.  She instinctively knew when we were preparing for a walk and would stay a safe distance away from us to avoid the humiliation of being tied to humans by a retractable nylon cord.  She would "run point" for us, going ahead of us to scout out the land and alert us to any possible dangers.  Luckily, the back nine at the golf course were pretty safe territory.

Dixie chasing Winston through the snow in Traveler's Rest

Dixie had a complicated relationship with our two other dogs, Minnie, the five-pound Pomeranian, and Winston, a goofy neurotic Silky Terrier.  Dixie loved to taunt them playfully, as an older sibling would do in the back seat of the family van, but she always worked to keep them safe.  One of my favorite pictures of Dixie is of her chasing Winston through the snow that covered our property one winter.  She looks as though she would eat him alive, but she mostly wanted to see him run. If she ever sensed the small dogs were in danger, Dixie would shepherd them toward the house and safety.

When our family moved to Columbia, Dixie retired from outdoor dog duty.  From the moment she left Traveler's Rest and her two-acre assigned territory, she considered herself to be an inside dog who left the comfort of the house only when necessary.  She wanted to be with us more and more.  She also discovered that the food inside was much better.

Dixie enjoyed fourteen years of good health.  We had noticed her slowing down, the increasing difficulty she had getting up and down, and the growing challenge of negotiating the stairs to go outside.  Her eyes were milky with cataracts and she was losing weight.  I tried to deny the fact her life was winding down, commenting that "in five years or so, we may have to make some tough choices."

The tough day came.  I've heard someone say that some decisions are difficult, but others are just painful.  I knew when Dixie was too sick and frail to continue her existence.  The choice wasn't difficult in that sense.  But how it hurt!  With the help of a good friend who is a vet, I made arrangements to carry her on her last ride with me on a Saturday morning. Linda and Andrew both asked me, "Don't you want someone to go with you?"  I answered, "She's my dog.  I need to do this."
As she lay on the examination table, relaxed by a sedative, perhaps sensing that her noble life was slipping away, Dixie picked her head up off of the table one last time and looked at me.  I took her beautiful head in my hands and held it until the life faded from her eyes and I knew her loving loyal spirit was gone.

I honestly don't know if we'll get another dog. Our children are grown and Linda and I are looking ahead to a season of life in which we'd like to be able to travel or annoy our kids in person without having to worry about boarding dogs or taking them along.  But this I do know:  I loved my Dixie.  The way Dixie and I belonged to each other added something sweet and sacred to my life.  Rest in peace, sweet girl.