Susie was my first doggy. My mom picked her up at a local breeder, where she was being sold as a Pekinese - cocker spaniel mix. She had the head, body and tail of a cocker, and the short little legs of a Pekinese. She was black and white in the luxurious way that cockers tend to be.
My first memories of her are rather vague, given that I was only 13 months old at the time she came to live with us, but the times I do remember were typical things any young kid might recall about his or her first dog. There were many days of play with her, and as I got old enough for school, I remember how she'd wait for me in the back yard when I'd come home and play with her.
Someone (not me, I assure you) went and left the side gate of our yard open, and she wandered out; I must've been seven or eight, and I remember being so sick at heart with worry that I couldn't go out and play with my buddies. It was the first time any of them had seen me upset like that, and they never gave me a hard time about it. Dad went to the local shelter, and there she was; he told me that she looked so ashamed of herself for being in one of those cinderblock stalls, like a common runaway or some such canine thing like that. I remember how happy and relieved we all were that she'd made it safely back home.
The years went by as fast as they all seem to do, even when you're young, and I didn't play so much with her as I used to, what with one thing or another, and one day I came home from the beach when I was 11, and there was my dad, standing at the end of our driveway. He waved at me as my friend's mom let me out of her old station wagon, and I remember thinking that I'd never seen him look so sad before. As I came up to him, he said, "I'm sorry, son, but you don't have a dog anymore."
It was later explained to me that she'd been in congestive heart failure for the previous year or so, and she'd had a bad heart attack several hours after I'd gone off to the beach, and she was just waiting for someone to come home before she left us. It was a blessing that it was my dad who found her, because he was her favorite. He took her to our Vet, but it was too late to do anything for her.
I tried very hard to be brave and not cry, but over the years, these things come back to haunt you, and the grief jumps out at you when you least expect it.
Even now, more than 50 years after her passing, a summer breeze will blow a certain way and make me think of playing ball with her in our small back yard, when I was just a kid and the loss of a beloved first pet was a million years away. And I weep like that long-ago boy who was trying so hard to be brave but never quite got there.
(Bio submitted with deepest thanks to my little bichon-poodle mix, Daffodil Clementine, who always came running when daddy unabashedly cried, and made sure that no tears stayed on my face too long. She - like EVERY doggie - is a blessed gift from God, and should always be treated as such.)
My first memories of her are rather vague, given that I was only 13 months old at the time she came to live with us, but the times I do remember were typical things any young kid might recall about his or her first dog. There were many days of play with her, and as I got old enough for school, I remember how she'd wait for me in the back yard when I'd come home and play with her.
Someone (not me, I assure you) went and left the side gate of our yard open, and she wandered out; I must've been seven or eight, and I remember being so sick at heart with worry that I couldn't go out and play with my buddies. It was the first time any of them had seen me upset like that, and they never gave me a hard time about it. Dad went to the local shelter, and there she was; he told me that she looked so ashamed of herself for being in one of those cinderblock stalls, like a common runaway or some such canine thing like that. I remember how happy and relieved we all were that she'd made it safely back home.
The years went by as fast as they all seem to do, even when you're young, and I didn't play so much with her as I used to, what with one thing or another, and one day I came home from the beach when I was 11, and there was my dad, standing at the end of our driveway. He waved at me as my friend's mom let me out of her old station wagon, and I remember thinking that I'd never seen him look so sad before. As I came up to him, he said, "I'm sorry, son, but you don't have a dog anymore."
It was later explained to me that she'd been in congestive heart failure for the previous year or so, and she'd had a bad heart attack several hours after I'd gone off to the beach, and she was just waiting for someone to come home before she left us. It was a blessing that it was my dad who found her, because he was her favorite. He took her to our Vet, but it was too late to do anything for her.
I tried very hard to be brave and not cry, but over the years, these things come back to haunt you, and the grief jumps out at you when you least expect it.
Even now, more than 50 years after her passing, a summer breeze will blow a certain way and make me think of playing ball with her in our small back yard, when I was just a kid and the loss of a beloved first pet was a million years away. And I weep like that long-ago boy who was trying so hard to be brave but never quite got there.
(Bio submitted with deepest thanks to my little bichon-poodle mix, Daffodil Clementine, who always came running when daddy unabashedly cried, and made sure that no tears stayed on my face too long. She - like EVERY doggie - is a blessed gift from God, and should always be treated as such.)
Susie was my first doggy. My mom picked her up at a local breeder, where she was being sold as a Pekinese - cocker spaniel mix. She had the head, body and tail of a cocker, and the short little legs of a Pekinese. She was black and white in the luxurious way that cockers tend to be.
My first memories of her are rather vague, given that I was only 13 months old at the time she came to live with us, but the times I do remember were typical things any young kid might recall about his or her first dog. There were many days of play with her, and as I got old enough for school, I remember how she'd wait for me in the back yard when I'd come home and play with her.
Someone (not me, I assure you) went and left the side gate of our yard open, and she wandered out; I must've been seven or eight, and I remember being so sick at heart with worry that I couldn't go out and play with my buddies. It was the first time any of them had seen me upset like that, and they never gave me a hard time about it. Dad went to the local shelter, and there she was; he told me that she looked so ashamed of herself for being in one of those cinderblock stalls, like a common runaway or some such canine thing like that. I remember how happy and relieved we all were that she'd made it safely back home.
The years went by as fast as they all seem to do, even when you're young, and I didn't play so much with her as I used to, what with one thing or another, and one day I came home from the beach when I was 11, and there was my dad, standing at the end of our driveway. He waved at me as my friend's mom let me out of her old station wagon, and I remember thinking that I'd never seen him look so sad before. As I came up to him, he said, "I'm sorry, son, but you don't have a dog anymore."
It was later explained to me that she'd been in congestive heart failure for the previous year or so, and she'd had a bad heart attack several hours after I'd gone off to the beach, and she was just waiting for someone to come home before she left us. It was a blessing that it was my dad who found her, because he was her favorite. He took her to our Vet, but it was too late to do anything for her.
I tried very hard to be brave and not cry, but over the years, these things come back to haunt you, and the grief jumps out at you when you least expect it.
Even now, more than 50 years after her passing, a summer breeze will blow a certain way and make me think of playing ball with her in our small back yard, when I was just a kid and the loss of a beloved first pet was a million years away. And I weep like that long-ago boy who was trying so hard to be brave but never quite got there.
(Bio submitted with deepest thanks to my little bichon-poodle mix, Daffodil Clementine, who always came running when daddy unabashedly cried, and made sure that no tears stayed on my face too long. She - like EVERY doggie - is a blessed gift from God, and should always be treated as such.)
My first memories of her are rather vague, given that I was only 13 months old at the time she came to live with us, but the times I do remember were typical things any young kid might recall about his or her first dog. There were many days of play with her, and as I got old enough for school, I remember how she'd wait for me in the back yard when I'd come home and play with her.
Someone (not me, I assure you) went and left the side gate of our yard open, and she wandered out; I must've been seven or eight, and I remember being so sick at heart with worry that I couldn't go out and play with my buddies. It was the first time any of them had seen me upset like that, and they never gave me a hard time about it. Dad went to the local shelter, and there she was; he told me that she looked so ashamed of herself for being in one of those cinderblock stalls, like a common runaway or some such canine thing like that. I remember how happy and relieved we all were that she'd made it safely back home.
The years went by as fast as they all seem to do, even when you're young, and I didn't play so much with her as I used to, what with one thing or another, and one day I came home from the beach when I was 11, and there was my dad, standing at the end of our driveway. He waved at me as my friend's mom let me out of her old station wagon, and I remember thinking that I'd never seen him look so sad before. As I came up to him, he said, "I'm sorry, son, but you don't have a dog anymore."
It was later explained to me that she'd been in congestive heart failure for the previous year or so, and she'd had a bad heart attack several hours after I'd gone off to the beach, and she was just waiting for someone to come home before she left us. It was a blessing that it was my dad who found her, because he was her favorite. He took her to our Vet, but it was too late to do anything for her.
I tried very hard to be brave and not cry, but over the years, these things come back to haunt you, and the grief jumps out at you when you least expect it.
Even now, more than 50 years after her passing, a summer breeze will blow a certain way and make me think of playing ball with her in our small back yard, when I was just a kid and the loss of a beloved first pet was a million years away. And I weep like that long-ago boy who was trying so hard to be brave but never quite got there.
(Bio submitted with deepest thanks to my little bichon-poodle mix, Daffodil Clementine, who always came running when daddy unabashedly cried, and made sure that no tears stayed on my face too long. She - like EVERY doggie - is a blessed gift from God, and should always be treated as such.)
