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I’ve lost four dogs, but three were really my Mom and Dad’s (Lady a Brittany Spaniel, Blazer a Brittany, and Lucky—a Pekinese, Pomeranian and Chihuahua mix).

“Sheba” I rescued around 1999-2000 while working for the Postal Service. I put her in my car one night and just took her home with me, she was as gentle as a lamb, apparently had been well-trained but mistreated and dumped.

That wonderful Akita / Shepherd mix with a literal mane and beautiful brushy tan and blonde coat was probably the best companion and rescue dog I’d ever witnessed. She’d lie down when I or my mom stopped, sit, stay, and never barked unless she sensed danger or played with the cat.

But of her apparent abuse, she was terribly afraid of loud noises and lightning and thunder. She would run away again and again, would not stay within a large fenced yard, and then my parents were cited with a city warning when a neighbor reported she growled and made fight at her kids—who were throwing rocks at her. They were afraid of course, and knew no better apparently.

I looked into dog resues, and the nearest was in Colorado. I should have taken her there after arranging it. My parents would not have her indoors but I understood, I should have searched harder, moved into a property with 25 acres for her to do walkabout in, $400/ mo fixer-upper. Idiot me.

I decided to put her to rest. My heart broke.
But if she’s running and playing with all the other pups in a special place in Heaven, that is good. If not, that’s ok.
It was meant, for myself and all who have pets, to enjoy, learn from, and take care of. And to pass that experience of love on to others.