Please note: This is long. There’s just no getting around it, but nothing shorter would have been appropriate, so, if you’re not a dog-lover, there’s no reason at all that you should take the time to read it. On the other hand, if you are, then you understand why it is long, and I don’t have to say.
November 14, 2011
Barnesville, Georgia

Dear Sadie,

You died this morning, but, of course, you know that. At about 8:40, I watched you get up out of your bed, stretch a bit, and get ready to meet the day as you always did. I knew that, from there, you would go into the kitchen to get a big drink of water and then come back to the front door so that I would take you out to potty. But this morning you didn’t. My attention had become diverted to something else, so I did not see you when you hit the floor. Then, I looked over at you and saw that you had fallen over onto your side, and that’s how, and how quickly, you died. Just like that.

As soon as we could, we took you out to the farm and buried you beside Lacy. We had to dig the biggest hole that we’ve ever had to dig for an animal, through roots and clay under that tree by the pond, but we didn’t mind at all. It was a privilege to have been able to do that for you. We laid you upon a large new white cotton towel and then covered you with another. I guess you know all of that, too. Then, we gently replaced the soil that we had removed, said our goodbyes, and went home to a house that will never again be the same.

What you may not know is that when we brought you home with us that day three years ago, we weren’t looking for a dog. But you had been hanging around that manufacturing plant, and we thought that someone might be afraid of your muscular frame, big head, and huge mouth and hurt you. So we picked you up with the idea that we would find your owner, or, failing that, that we would find a good home for you. We looked for days for your family without success. We took you to the vet’s office and asked them if they knew you, but they didn’t. We checked the papers for notices of lost dogs, but there was nothing. Then, we tried to find you a new home but couldn’t. It turned out that dogs who look like you are difficult to get adopted.

I never wanted a dog that shared ancestry with pit bulls, because I have several small grandchildren and thought that you might be a threat to them. Of course, I didn’t know you then. How could I have known that the only way you could ever hurt anyone was if they were to get carpal tunnel syndrome from petting you too much? How could I then know how you would tolerate our three year old redheaded granddaughter’s lying all over you and hugging you and lying on your bed with you, without complaining? Of course, two or three times, when she had hurt you some way, you snapped at her—not angrily but more like you might have snapped at a puppy that was becoming too frisky. You only wanted to get her attention, and you did, but your teeth never once touched her skin. She would cry a little and leave you alone for a while, but an hour later she would be right back, because she knew, right from the first, something that I didn’t—that even though you were big and strong and looked mean, you weren’t, and, even though she couldn’t see it, she knew that your heart was bigger than that big old mouth of yours, and that’s pretty big. When she found out that you had died, she cried for hours, and I know exactly how she felt.

You’ll have to admit, though, Sadie, that you really weren’t much of a watchdog. You liked people way too much. We didn’t even know that you could bark until months after we had taken you in, and I can count on one hand the times that I heard you bark in the three years that you lived with us. Of course, when you did bark, it was usually at three o’clock in the morning when you thought you heard a noise somewhere in the house. I would get up and say, “Go check it out, Sadie,” and you would give me that look, like, “You go ahead. I got your back.” So we would both just go back to bed.

Before you, I had never known that a dog could be such a total pouty-face. If you didn’t get your way about something or other—say I took a (paper) plate to the kitchen without letting you lick it—you would sit and pout and wouldn’t look me in the eye, and no amount of calling or cajoling could get you to come. You just wouldn’t, and that’s all there was to that.

You were not much for playing, either. You had little use for balls, or sticks, or socks, or any of the things that dogs usually like to play with, and anyone who threw something for you to fetch was just wasting his time. You played one way and one way only—you would roll over onto your back, work your body from side to side as if you were trying to polish the floor with your back, kick your hind legs like you were riding a bicycle, and, with your big old lips flopping open, make funny sounds with your mouth, and you might do that for ten minutes straight. You were a good dog, Sadie, and a very smart one, but you were also a goofy dog. A truly goofy dog.

Like I said, you were a good dog, Sadie, but that doesn’t say nearly enough, so let me try again. You were such a good dog, Sadie, that you may have spoiled us from ever getting another, for we know full well that, even if we searched long and hard, and were able to choose from hundreds of dogs, and had both the good fortune and good sense to choose the best of the lot, we could never hope to find one even half as good as you. And that’s not hyperbole spawned of grief. It’s simply fact.

You were kind, and quiet, and even-tempered, and extremely smart, and goofy, and funny, and reserved, and completely unexcitable, except, of course, when you saw a squirrel. Then, all bets were off, and the reserved adult dog went off somewhere, and the puppy returned. I remember that morning a year ago, Sadie, when you almost got that squirrel. We were walking down our driveway toward the street. As usual, I had placed your leash around my neck and had not yet hooked you up. From the pecan tree in the middle of the front yard, a squirrel came down and into the yard. About the same time he hit the ground, he saw you. Now, the sight of you scared the snot out of squirrels and made them dumber than they usually are, so, instead of shinnying back up the tree that it was standing beside of, it took off toward the next tree at the edge of the yard by the neighbor’s yard. When it did, you took off, too, and your speed was, for a dog of your size, phenomenal. Well, the stupid squirrel made it to the next tree, but, when it got there, it decided that that was not the right tree after all so headed out for the tree in the middle of the neighbor’s yard, and you were closing rapidly. By the time the squirrel made it to that tree, you were not more than three feet behind, and that squirrel almost lost his behind that day. Almost.

Then, there was the time that you caught that huge, stinky, nocturnal squirrel—the kind that we two-legged dogs generally refer to as a possum. Jeremy and I had taken you out for your last potty break of the night. There was no moon, and, especially since our eyes had not adjusted yet, it was dark in the neighbor’s yard even though the street lamp cast some light through the leaves of the dogwood trees that separated it from the yard. Immediately, you raised your ears, and we knew that you had spotted something, so Jeremy said, “Sadie…,” but it was too late. Off you went into the darkness on the far side of the neighbor’s yard. In just a few seconds, you returned with an adult possum, dropped it at our feet, and looked up at us with eyes that said, “I’ve done my part, now do yours.” The possum was lying on its side with its mouth open and its tongue lolling out onto the grass and already appeared to be dead. I had no idea what you expected, so I picked up a stick and poked the possum. When I did, it cracked one eye and hissed at me as if to say, “I’m not really dead, you moron. I’m just playing me so the huge dog won’t eat me.” So, your job done, you quickly lost interest, and we left the possum lying there in the yard and went back into the house. The next morning, it was gone.

Jeremy was your buddy. You tolerated, and probably even liked the rest of us, but Jeremy was your buddy. If you needed something—water in your bowl or to go out, or, if you just felt the need for company, it was usually to him you would go, and, even in that, you showed what kind of dog you were. You would go to his room where you would always find the door cracked just a tiny bit—cracked for you. You would push the door open just a bit more so that you could poke your big nose into the room, but you would, respectfully, never actually go in unless he invited you. You would make no sound, but, even if he was asleep at the time, he would always know that you were there and get up and see to your needs, whatever they were.

We always wondered, Sadie, why we couldn’t find your family. When we found you, you were well fed and in good shape and had obviously been well cared for. And, when we later took you to the vet, we learned that you had been fixed. That’s not cheap for a female dog, and people do not do that for a dog unless they have a high regard for her. Also, you were house-broken from day one, and the only two accidents that you had over the three years were both our fault, and we knew it, and we never said a harsh word to you about them. We knew that, if we lived up to our responsibilities, you would live up to yours, and you did.

Plus, Sadie, you knew how to shake hands, and how to sit upon command, so someone had obviously spent some quality time with you, but, try as we might, we just couldn’t find them. So, we came to the conclusion, by and by, that perhaps your family had found it necessary, for whatever reason, to move to a place where they could no longer keep you. I imagine that they tried hard to find you a new home but encountered the same reluctance that we did regarding dogs with your heritage. And, I imagine that they finally did the only thing that they felt they could do—they put you out in a rural area, outside of the territory of the dog-catcher, where there were enough houses so that you would have a decent chance of finding a new home, and I imagine that it broke their hearts to have to do it. And that, Sadie, is how you came to live with us.

I remember the first time that I saw you. I was driving down the road by the mill, and you were going the other way. As I went by, you looked at me with your ears up and a question in your eyes. I didn’t know it at the time, but that question was, “Do you know where my family is?” I’m sorry, Sadie, that I didn’t. Later on, when I would be walking you, a pickup truck towing some kind of enclosed trailer would drive by, and you would turn, strain at the leash, and, ears up, watch it until it went out of sight. That happened many times. I imagine that your family must have had a rig like it, and it made me sad to know the hurt that you must have been feeling each time you watched the truck drive away without you…again and again.

I couldn’t find your family then, Sadie, and I’m sorry for that, but I know where they are now. They’re right here. They’re the ones who took you in when nobody else would, or could. They’re the ones who fed you, walked you, kept you clean, and took you to the vet when you were sick. They’re the ones who were at first cautious about you but then came to know you, and respect you, and love you, and, today, they’re the ones who cried over you and then lovingly and tenderly laid you to rest. They’re the ones who look with sadness at the spot where your bed used to be—where it was just this morning. They’re the ones who miss you now and who will miss you tomorrow and every day after that for a long time, maybe forever, and they’re the ones who will be sad this Christmas because you are not with them. And, they’re the ones who picked up your leash, and though your body wasn’t with them, walked you this evening just like always and who would continue to do the same for weeks. It is my hope, Sadie, that you feel today, as we do, that you did, finally, find your family.

P.S.
Once I get up from this, Sadie, I won’t come back to it for a long time, perhaps never, because to do so would be uncomfortable. It was difficult to get through it, but I had to do it for you, and, I guess, for us, in the hope that maybe your previous family will read it and then get in touch, anonymously should they desire, so that they can tell us things like what your name used to be, how old you were, and what you were like as a puppy. I don’t feel hard at them, Sadie, and I hope that you don’t, either, because I believe that they did only what they had to do and that their actions were motivated by love. I can’t honestly say that, had the circumstances been reversed, I would have done any differently.

One day soon, I’ll find a good picture of you and put it in the post, but not today. Not today.