Kids everywhere, chickens all out there, and kittens: not yet. That was the Christmas there were puppies. Eight of them. In a box our living room, in our kitchen, in the laundry room, on our laps and in our arms. Then, out into the world, to live with new families.
Except Zelda. She stayed with us, and joined the pack. Even when she was bigger and stronger, she deferred to the older dogs, especially the decrepit chihuahua, Laszlo. He put her in her place when she was a pup, growling and nipping when she went for his food bowl. She never forgot that he was in charge, even when she towered over him and could have easily trampled him into the mud.
She relished playing in snow and the ocean in Oregon. It was in Oregon that she also discovered her keen talent for freeing, chasing, and snapping the necks of our backyard flock of chickens. Our appreciation for her skills was never sufficient, but that didn't stop her from trying again and again.
She endured international travel twice, and spent a whole year in Colombia. In Texas, she delighted in prancing and rolling around her big grassy backyard.
She also adores this lady, who dotes on her like nobody ever has. Naty's love and attention has been Zelda's best home, making her last year the sweetest of all of them.
For the kids and me, Zelda is a thread that connects us to a place we no longer call home, and she is fading away.
Her fifteenth birthday passed in December. On that day, as usual, she acted like a 15 month old. A few months later, we now feel we would be lucky to have 15 more days with her.
It isn't messy and loud anymore, but life is still incredibly beautiful. Seduced by the painful and charming mix of memories, regrets, and gratitude, how could I not lean in and take her whole ear in my hand, whispering "You're such a good good dog."
