 |
 |
 |
|
| Scully |  |
“Whatever my lot, thou hast taught me to say It is well; it is well, with my soul.” Yes, it is well with my soul. But my heart is broken. I know that the right decision was made at the right time. And as a result, I no longer share my living quarters with Scully, the Jolly Soul. I never wanted another dog. But somehow through a series of events, Scully came to live with us over 12 years ago. Her previous owner could not keep up with her rambunctious attitude and had little patience for her complete disregard for obedience and pleasing one’s master. Good thing she came to live with us. We embrace weirdness and have a solid belief in knowing dignity is overrated. She tolerated our growing zoo which, at times, included five cats, two other dogs, a hedgehog, a couple of rabbits and numerous guinea pigs. She would greet each one with a sniff, decide they were not too edible and continue on her merry way. Over her life of 13+ years, she endured losing her sight and most of her hearing, diabetes, Cushing’s disease, thyroid disorder, COPD, arthritis and other eye and skin problems. But she would take her medicine, without hesitation (if it was wrapped in lunch meat) and soldier on. But it was the damn bladder cancer that was the last straw. I couldn’t hide cancer medicine in a piece of cheese. But, it is well. Scully had unique talents. When she was younger and it snowed, she plowed through it with the action of a dolphin diving through waves. Boing, boing, boing. As she got older, she would tail my heels and as I shoveled a part of the walkway, she would take the two steps that were available and wait for me to remove the snow that was in front of her. Scrape, scrape, step, step, we would slowly make our way together until the walkway was clear. She could sing. She would sit down, stretch her neck as far as it would go and make her mouth a little “o.” Then, the tune would come out, a bit off-key, but sung with such enthusiasm, it made you want to join in. When she was excited, she would jump on her back legs and paw her front legs in unison. Later, when her little legs could no longer hold her, she would lie down on her side but still pawed her two front legs together in a charming fashion. It is well. Scully somehow knew when a neighbor was on my list. I don’t know how she knew but she did. She would hold “it” until we got to the driveway and then she would leggo. She did this too many times at too many different addresses to believe it was a fluke. She could also create art with her deposits. Sometimes it looked like numbers or other designs. She also knew when I really didn’t want her to leggo and would do it then anyway. One time she came up behind me and barked a bark that sounded so much like the word “barf” that I had to turn around and see if I was standing in vomit. It is well. You couldn’t call her cuddly although she looked like a black Ewok. If you gave her a stuffed teddy she would take it to a spot in the backyard and gleefully tear it into shreds. Even after becoming blind, she would take on any other dog who was even thinking about sneaking her cookie and she would win. The blindness hardly slowed her down. Tail up, she mapped out the yard and the house. Walks were continued and lately she had been using the curb as her guide. Evenings and cold days were spent on the sofa. One time she rolled off the sofa into a plate of pie my son had set down on the floor. It was the best dream she ever had. It is well. She liked to bark and if you told her to shush, she took that to mean you wanted her to turn up the volume. It was such a joyful bark it was hard to not let her indulge. She hated baths but loved being rubbed down with a towel especially on her face. She snorkeled up food and treats but sometimes it would upset her system and then I would have to bathe her back end. She didn’t like it when that happened and firmly believed if she tucked her tail under I wouldn’t notice. She liked riding in the car but it was best when she could ride in your lap with her head hanging out the window sniffing for all she was worth. She got hot easily but hated the cold. She loved rolling on her back in the grass and would sometimes wear herself out doing so, falling asleep with all four paws skyward. It is well. The pain of her absence is a physical ache. She took up so much of my time with her medicinal needs and now I despair when those times roll around and I have nothing to do. I know with all the certainty I am capable of that she is in a better place. She feels good and can see and hear and no one will ever try and take her cookie away or give her another insulin shot. I know that in my head. And it is well with my soul. But my heart is shattered.
|
2010 All Rights Reserved