[I don't usually put so many photos in one post with photos, but this one tells a story spanning quite a few years, so it's rather photo-rich. ]
We're a dog-loving family. We've always had dogs; I can't remember life without a dog in the family! When I was born, my parents had a dog named Sam; for a few years we had a sweet but not-so-smart black dog named Sootie; when I was five, we got a poodle born on Christmas day that I named after Lucille Ball.
When I was twelve, my aunt Beckie's dog had puppies, and I was there shortly after they were born. I fell in love with Dusty, the biggest of the litter of 13 Collie-mix puppies. She was my pal, and when I moved out of the house, she came with me. Dusty was a wonderful dog: she loved blueberries and knew how to pick only the ripe ones; she was the star of her obedience class; she once saved the life of our old pony Flipper, and alerted us when our mare BabyGirl was hurt; she patiently endured toddlers pulling on her. Even dog-fearing children loved her.
I tested Dusty's patience by bringing a puppy into the picture. Ellie was born on Cinco de Mayo in 1994. She was the runt of the litter of ten puppies: 7 roly-poly chocolate labs, and 3 smaller black ones. I think Ellie was mixed with border collie, based on her looks (especially in her older years), size, and personality, but combined with the labrador, it was a fabulous mix (do you see a recurring mutt theme here?). She came home in June, and immediately loved Dusty. Although Dusty feigned indifference, they developed a strong bond. I've heard that two female dogs aren't suppose to get along well, but that just wasn't true for Dusty and Ellie.
For years, the dogs were my family, my children. Dusty set a great example for Ellie, and I think she helped to make Ellie such a sweet and patient dog. When Dusty died from a brain tumor at the age of fourteen, I was heartbroken; I had been there the day she was born, and she'd been part of my family since I was 12 years old. Having sweet Ellie to come home to helped me grieve Dusty. For anyone who has never really loved and lost a pet, it sounds ridiculous to think of how much the owners grieve. I don't mean to claim that it's the same as losing a close human family member, but losing a pet is a very real grief, different from any other loss because of the different relationship we have with pets versus the people in our lives.
A couple of years later, Kathryn was born. Ellie did well learning to live with a child, and Kathryn adored her. As Kathryn got older, Ellie really bonded with her. She would often just come lie next to Kathryn while she was playing, and seemed to enjoy it when Kathryn would love on her. Ellie always was a snuggle bunny.
When Kathryn was playing in her little princess tent, Ellie would join her.
And when Kathryn played her harmonica, Ellie would sing along. (If only I had an audio of this!) Kathryn could barely keep playing because she'd be laughing so hard.
We buried Ellie in our back yard, along with Dusty's ashes, and planted butterfly-friendly flowers there because she always loved to chase butterflies. Our home felt very empty without the sweet furry girl who had left paw prints all over our hearts.
This is not the end of our story; come back tomorrow for the (happier) continuation. . .
We're a dog-loving family. We've always had dogs; I can't remember life without a dog in the family! When I was born, my parents had a dog named Sam; for a few years we had a sweet but not-so-smart black dog named Sootie; when I was five, we got a poodle born on Christmas day that I named after Lucille Ball.
When I was twelve, my aunt Beckie's dog had puppies, and I was there shortly after they were born. I fell in love with Dusty, the biggest of the litter of 13 Collie-mix puppies. She was my pal, and when I moved out of the house, she came with me. Dusty was a wonderful dog: she loved blueberries and knew how to pick only the ripe ones; she was the star of her obedience class; she once saved the life of our old pony Flipper, and alerted us when our mare BabyGirl was hurt; she patiently endured toddlers pulling on her. Even dog-fearing children loved her.
I tested Dusty's patience by bringing a puppy into the picture. Ellie was born on Cinco de Mayo in 1994. She was the runt of the litter of ten puppies: 7 roly-poly chocolate labs, and 3 smaller black ones. I think Ellie was mixed with border collie, based on her looks (especially in her older years), size, and personality, but combined with the labrador, it was a fabulous mix (do you see a recurring mutt theme here?). She came home in June, and immediately loved Dusty. Although Dusty feigned indifference, they developed a strong bond. I've heard that two female dogs aren't suppose to get along well, but that just wasn't true for Dusty and Ellie.For years, the dogs were my family, my children. Dusty set a great example for Ellie, and I think she helped to make Ellie such a sweet and patient dog. When Dusty died from a brain tumor at the age of fourteen, I was heartbroken; I had been there the day she was born, and she'd been part of my family since I was 12 years old. Having sweet Ellie to come home to helped me grieve Dusty. For anyone who has never really loved and lost a pet, it sounds ridiculous to think of how much the owners grieve. I don't mean to claim that it's the same as losing a close human family member, but losing a pet is a very real grief, different from any other loss because of the different relationship we have with pets versus the people in our lives.A couple of years later, Kathryn was born. Ellie did well learning to live with a child, and Kathryn adored her. As Kathryn got older, Ellie really bonded with her. She would often just come lie next to Kathryn while she was playing, and seemed to enjoy it when Kathryn would love on her. Ellie always was a snuggle bunny.
We buried Ellie in our back yard, along with Dusty's ashes, and planted butterfly-friendly flowers there because she always loved to chase butterflies. Our home felt very empty without the sweet furry girl who had left paw prints all over our hearts.This is not the end of our story; come back tomorrow for the (happier) continuation. . . 
