Every day, a photograph, a poem. After today’s Daily Create, I needed to write a poem about our dog in that photo of her wearing doggles.
She was one of those personalities, lazy and not demanding, and always wanting to please— whoever she is with, including all the grandkids whom she would let hold her tail while she swam, pulling them along with her. A lovely soul, kindness only. Although we did need to curb her rushing the deer and rabbits, and she, for the most part, listened. We miss her, our only dog.
Another teacher at school on a Friday before Father’s Day about 2002 said to me, “That abandoned puppy isn’t going to make it. Maybe you should take her home?” The puppy had followed me around the school yard, stopping when I did to stack the safety cones after our last day picnic races for the kids. So patient, tail wagging, “Where next?” — which is pretty much her life with us— “What’s next? Where are we going? Let’s go.”
All day for the previous week, she’d rest on the school lawn, and wait for the kids to come out and play, hoping they had a few snacks. Interestingly, she did not defecate on the lawn, but would wander over to the edge in the weeds. And that too is how sh’ed always been— never making a mess where “people” played.
So my colleague helped me get her situated in the passenger seat and we closed the door, after which the teacher said, “I hope she doesn’t get sick in the car; dogs get car sick.” Now she tells me— me, who’d never had a dog before, but I knew my husband loved and wanted a dog— and it was Father’s Day that Sunday. So…. Our many years with this beautiful creature began.
Although Scott did say, smiling, “A dog? You brought home a dog? Don’t you know we’ll have a three-year-old for fourteen years?”
And that was true. Dogs are three-year-olds— always curious and running.
She was lovely in her white fur coat with a slightly shaggy and always wagging tail. Her funny ears could flap like a lab or perk up like a German Shepherd or turn back like a greyhound. Very quirky that fit her happy personality.
When we’d meet people, they’d ask what breed she was, and we’d always tell them: She’s a purebred Resmut.
And the people would look her over and say, “I’ve not heard of that breed before. She’s lovely. Where’d you get her?”
And we’d repeat with explanation: “purebred Resmut —- reservation mutt.” Because she was from the Colville Reservation where I taught for thirty-one years. A perfect breed: Resmut!
Even saying “W”
She perks up her ears—
Ready for a walk
A run on the beach
A chance to fetch those sticks.
Kind brown eyesSheri Edwards
Always wagging tail
Always sniffing, a friend to all
We still miss her endearing antics.
Photo: Crescent Bay, 2007
1077 days of posts in a row
Geeky Gramma ~~
Retired Middle School Language Arts/Media Teacher ~~
Writer and Thinker~~
Art from the Heart