In October 1999, only one month had passed since we had mercifully laid our spaniel-mix Maggie to rest. Mark had taken her passing particularly hard since Maggie was the first dog he'd known from puppyhood til death. He said he wanted to wait awhile before getting another dog, but when he suggested we visit the animal shelter on that bright autumn day, I warned him: "If we go there today, we're getting another dog today."
Enter Sandy.
I can still see that sweet, three-month-old face as I lifted her from the pen at the local ASPCA. Dogs were barking all around her, but she sat quietly, waiting...for me? I immediately knew she had the perfect temperament for a family with children and when I showed her to J, the deal was sealed.
I was working full-time outside of the home then, and we never knew what we'd find after leaving Sandy alone for most of the day. I didn't have the heart to crate her, so we attempted to confine her to the kitchen. One day she was sitting in the adjacent dining room, despite the gate that remained installed in the doorway. "I have NO idea how I got here!" she seemed to say as I stood there, stunned.
Although her indoor manners improved with age, she remained the proverbial escape artist, seizing any opportunity to slip out of our backyard to prowl the neighborhood. But she always came home, eventually.
Mark said Sandy was as tough as nails (one of her nicknames was "Brick-head" because sometimes, when she didn't quite clear a doorway, she'd smack her snout ~ and just kept going), a trait that endured as she aged. Despite arthritis, deafness and various lumps and bumps, she remained alert and mobile with a healthy appetite until the end.
We did our best to give her a good life. I hope she knew that.
RIP Boo-Bear. Until we meet again.
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