Not Just A Day

My parents hated dogs. Probably about as much as they hated happiness. That's not to say that I had never had a dog. There had been times over the years of my childhood that something came over them, and they indulged. I know my first dog's name was Socks, but I remember neither what he looked like, nor what became of him. There were two sibling puppies one time-Sandy & Randy. The story there is the same. No real recollection- just names to something I know had existed. There was Blizzard, the Great Pyrenees with whom they were obsessed with because of his massive size and gentle temperament. He eventually got the mange, and I was told he just wandered away, although looking back now, I doubt that was the case. Then came Lila. They were all about getting this dog. Encouraging, talking it up. "Border Collies are so smart." "She will be a good dog." They liked that I had picked the name, "Delilah," as that was a "Biblical Name," and for whatever twisted reason, that carried some sense of importance and meaning to them. My last memory of Lila is of her being forced to wear a dead, rotting cat tied around her neck-my cat, Geoffrey- for weeks, because he had been killed, and she kept dragging him into the yard. So this was my father's solution. Pets were never around long enough to get very attached to. That is, until I was 16 years old, and a gift from my boyfriend became my closest friend who kept me through the darkest days & a cornerstone for my transition to adulthood.

We drove an hour and a half to get her. My heart had longed for a Yorkie for some time, but the price tag and the obvious circumstances, the people I lived with, pretty much kept me at bay. So when this opportunity came about, I was over the moon. She was a tiny little thing, born on September 9th, 2005. One day before my birthday. I took it as a sign. She actually wasn't a full blooded Yorkie, but it didn't matter. She was little and precious. She was my baby doll. Looking back, I think I needed this real life version of a doll, for comfort and companionship. We were inseparable. I wasn't sure how well it was going to go over with my parents, being that I still had to live at home. My mom was quite reserved and reluctant at first, and my dad nothing, which wasn't uncommon. He was good about withholding reactions so that they could simmer up to one massive blow. I knew this could likely end up being temporary, as every other animal I had ever known had. It didn't take long, though, for the little black and brown ball of fluff to soften the edges of my mom's heart. And that sealed the deal.

"Sprinkles" quickly became the baby of the house. She got all the good treats. She had her own Christmas presents. She got to go with me everywhere except school. I can still see how excited she would get when you asked if she wanted to go somewhere. I swear, she could understand English as good as any person. She was in all the prom photos, like she's the child there and must be included. She was the warm protector I held close at night when I feared sleep and what he might come in and do. She was the silent shoulder who licked my tears when the words had been cruel or the threats seemingly sincere. She heard all the things I was too afraid to stand up and say but wished I could. She went to my sleepovers at friends' houses. They came to know her like a person just as I had.

When Sprinkles was about a year old a nearby neighbor who owned a small male Yorkie encouraged us to breed her. My young heart and love of all things tiny couldn't stop myself. Before I knew it, my baby was set to have babies. About 5 weeks in, I was awakened one night to her jumping off the bed and frantically roaming through the house. Up my steps, back and forth, in and out of my room. I became panicked, until suddenly I realized what was happening. Right there on the steps to my bedroom door, she began to abort those babies. All 9 of them. My heart was broken. For the babies. For her. And I became ridden with guilt. For several weeks after, she carried around this little red rubber dog shaped toy. She would nuzzle and "bury" it with her nose, lick on it and carry it from place to place. We knew she thought it was her baby.

One night, my love for her was the driving force the led me to take a bold stand against the abuse I had endured for so long. My father had been lying on the couch, in the dark, watching TV, as was his ritual. We knew to just keep our distance. He was mad about something this time though. I wasn't going to get to slip by. I don't know what the argument was, although there never was much arguing with him. You just took your lashing and feared to make a sound or shift your eyes wrong. Maybe she growled, maybe she barked. I'm not really even sure. But I will never forget watching him pick her up and squeeze and shake with all his might, more to be a dramatic display to me than to hurt her, although both were accomplished. He liked to do that. And that was the final straw. Screams, threats, degradation, hate- all spewed from me. In his shock, he put her down, and I took her, and left.

We sought refuge at my cousins house for a few days, until the binding injustice that is the law prevailed and forced me to return and finish out my days. I'd like to say that there was a happy ending at that place, but there wasn't. It came to an end, and that was the happy part.

My mom had felt led to get a dog of her own somewhere in all of this. A little Bichon Maltese mix from the same neighbor. It didn't take long for nature to find it's way, again. I tended her so closely throughout this pregnancy. Helping her up and down from the furniture. Rubbing her little stretched to the limit belly and feeling all of those tiny kicks and rolls. The babies were born just a few weeks before I graduated high school. Seven in all. The 7th baby was the undeniable runt that I had to raise with a syringe. She too, became a part of our family.

Soon after high school, I married the same boy who got my Sprinkles for me. We had our own house, away from the fear, away from the darkness. Sprinkles had her own Christmas stocking. She had her own toy basket. She got chewy sticks on the regular, and just as before, went everywhere she could with me. My brother in law used to make fun of us and tell us we needed to have a real kid. When the human babies started coming, we had onesies with dogs on them just to take pictures with the dogs and babies together. She watched over them just as she had with me. She loved to go out and chase a squirrel and swim in the river. She loved to wait beside the bathtub just so she could lick the water off of my legs when I got out (weird, I know). Her perch was the back of the couch, closest to the corner. When she wasn't doing something, this is where you would find her.

My husband's grandmother lived just down the dirt road from us and our farm. The kids and I visited her frequently in those early years. Her house sat on against the rural highway, but it was not uncommon for the dogs (we had several by this time) to follow us up the road when we went out. Once they saw we were either stopping at Granny Ann's or not, they would either stay there and wait with us, or go on back home. It happened on a weekly basis for several years, so it was never a concerning matter for us.

I don't know where we had gone that day. But one day, she wasn't at home. We searched everywhere. I expected to turn up a body, but nothing. My heart was broken. Not only was she gone from me, but I had no idea if she was dead, or taken and afraid, or worse. I cried and ached for days. I plastered missing information on every outlet I could find. I offered a reward. I shared it, and shared it, and pleaded in every way I could for someone to just disclose SOMETHING.

The only bit of information I obtained was from an acquaintance on Faceb00k who said that they had driven by headed to church and that they saw a car pulled over by Granny Ann's and the dog outside the car.

She wasn't dead. She was taken. At the time, it felt worse than hearing she was dead. She could be anywhere. She would be wondering where her family was. She would be wondering why I'm not coming for her. They could be torturing her. They would find out that she was spayed and that she wasn't useful to them and ditch her. All of these things were racing through my mind.

As time passed, the racing thoughts became agonizing daily meditations. Somewhere out there, my very best friend was alive, hopefully, but I would never get to see her again, not even to say goodbye. Over 9 years of life and memories just vanished in an instant. Her bed still lay in the living room. The couch still held the impression where she spent the majority of her time and still smelled like her, a smell I can't really describe but could identify in a heartbeat. I would sit on the couch just to sniff her smell quite often, but I never told anyone that.

Days turned to weeks, & weeks turned to months. My brain knew it was time to move on, but my heart was still struggling to let go. I had a family to focus on and would probably look a little bit looney if I were to expose to anyone how deeply I was being affected by this. I lay awake at night. I prayed. I vowed. Just when I began to accept my new reality, that this was life now, one day I received an unmarked letter in the mail....

It had no return address. It was postmarked from a town two hours away. There was a folded up piece of paper inside that read only a few words:

"The license plate for the car that picked up your dog is *****."

Almost cryptic. Was this some kind of a mean trick? I became flooded with emotion and hope. I wasn't sure what to do with this information, so I did the only thing I knew to do and reached out to our sheriff's department.

As you might imagine, a missing dog case isn't exactly a top priority for a sheriff's department, even in a small town. Maybe it was because he knew who I was, or maybe I just caught him on a good day, but he said he would make a few calls and see what he could figure out. As it turns out, the license plate came back belonging to someone in a nearby town about 45 minutes away, and entirely the opposite direction of where the letter had been postmarked. Since it was in another county he had had to put in a call to that department who said they would send someone to the person's house to talk to her, but not to get my hopes up too much.

When the phone rang that evening and popped up the nearby prefix, my heart stopped. I answered. It was an elderly sounding lady, who seemed like she was shaken or upset. She said the police had been to her house regarding a missing dog. She proceeded to tell me that she had picked up a dog, but didn't think that it could be my dog. She had seen the missing postings but since that dog was said to be 9 years old, the vet she had taken her to for an evaluation (and micro-chipping) had assessed her to be about 3-5 years old, so this surely wasn't her. Nevermind the matching picture or fact that she picked up a dog 45 minutes from her home in a very specific location also described. We talked for several minutes, her describing the happenings to me, and declaring her disbelief that this was my dog. I told her to look in her mouth. That her top right incisor would be broken and that she would have a double incisor on the bottom left as well as a cute little missing front tooth. She couldn't deny that. And she began to weep. She asked me if I would consider selling her, to which the answer was obvious. We arranged to meet the following day to return her.

I was an absolute wreck waiting in that parking lot. Would she remember me? Would she hate me? Would they even show? I was standing outside when the little black car pulled in. A younger woman got out, and introduced me as the daughter of the woman who had taken the dog. She said she had just not felt up to the trip. This lady lived in Little Rock, the same town, that the postmark came from, and said she visits her mom and her mom visits her quite frequently. When she opened the back door and let her down, I couldn't believe my eyes. There she was. She was probably 10 pounds heavier, and her hair hadn't been trimmed an inch. But it was her. The woman apologized but kept things short. She gave me her records and microchip information, and we took her home. That's where the real test would be.

Would she recognize anything? Would she know us? I couldn't tell just from the exchange at the gas station. She didn't seem like she was all that familiar with us. I didn't notice a lot of spark of recognition when we pulled up to the house and the other dogs greeted us. We went in. She walked around for a moment or two. And then, just as if no time had passed, she hopped up onto her perch on the couch, and I knew we were going to be okay.

Sprinkles came home. We played. We hiked. We picnicked. She would grow up with my babies after all.

In June, about 6 months later, we were getting ready to celebrate all of our kids' birthdays with a camping trip. I had to make a run to the store that morning for some last minute supplies, and my husband was going to work on getting the camper towed to our spot on the river. I got a call from him as I was coming out of the grocery store. He voice was, off....

He asked me if I had put Sprinkles up. I had. I had been making sure she was put up all the time now after the last experience. I hated to, because she loved to be free, and I hated her being cooped up when we had to be away. But I wasn't taking any chances. I was going to get her when we got back and take her to the river. He started apologizing, saying that he thought I had let her out or that he didn't know she had gotten out, I honestly can't even remember the specifics now. The words just started swirling as the sounds and world around me became distant and drowned. She was gone. She had gotten out. She had gone to the highway. He found her when he came back from the drop off, just in front of the mailbox. He had her and was bringing her home. I was numb.

I didn't have long to grieve that day, as we had several families waiting on us for the trip that weekend. They also wouldn't understand. What kind of grown adult cancels birthday parties because their dog dies? I had already grieved her once, so maybe that is what got me through. I couldn't even tell you what my kids thought about that party, what the theme was, or what we did. My only recollection of that weekend is the few moments I held her lifeless body on an old feed sack before I buried her in the earth along with my heartache. At least this time, I told myself, I got to say goodbye and know that she knew we loved her.

There is really no one memory I can single out with my dog. She was with me through so many stages of life and coming of age. She was my gateway to hope and love and at times the one thing that kept me fighting for something better. I have to go farther and farther back with each passing year, to pull out a photo or a memory of her. I have children now that she never met, and have lived almost as much life without her as I did with her. That is hard. But her life, the time and love she gave to me is the best memory I could ever have. Ultimately, Sprinkles unleashed me-from a life of fear, anger, and hopelessness.