Good Dog

Dixie D. Dawg – 1989-2003

A gentle spirit left us today.

Dixie D. Dawg, our constant companion these last years, passed as quietly and gracefully as she lived — a good, brave, and obedient dog, right up until the end. She was fourteen.

Dixie was the clock of our daily routine: up at six, out for her self-supervised walk, back by six-thirty, eager for breakfast, and content until ten, when she would remind me to stop writing and move around a bit. By two-thirty, she would plant herself by the door, awaiting the arrival at the postman at three.

She came at five-thirty for dinner, then joined in the evening’s activities: watching t.v., sitting patiently by as we played cards with friends, or resting her jaw on my knee while I read a book.

She had learned to recognize the odd electronic sound the t.v. makes when we turn it off for the night. In her mind, this signalled the happiest time of the day: bedtime … and my ceremonial delivery of her bedtime bacon.

Dixie came into Clyde’s life four years before I did; when I first arrived, a minor turf war ensured. At the height of our battle, Dixie shocked us all by launching herself onto the dinner table, snatching up an entire roast beef, and streaking off into the living room, trailing gravy.

People who use the phrase “fighting like dogs and cats” never met Dixie, who raised at least five kittens over the last decade. She loved Desi, Lucy, the short-lived Buddy, Tiger, and Lilly as though they were her own. Fighting of any kind simply wasn’t allowed; if the cats ever hissed or spat or growled at each other, Dixie got in between them and broke it up.

Dixie was unusually smart. She learned the basic tricks — sit, stay, speak — with casual ease, in one afternoon. She could answer questions, standing stock-still for “No,” or wagging her stubby tail for “Yes.” We never taught her to ask to go outside; she simply started it on her own, coming to us with eyebrows raised and ears erect, glancing at the door.

She traveled well and often. Dixie loved “to go,” and in the early years, she enjoyed forrays up and down the Natchez Trace. Walks were always a favorite passtime — including leisurely, unsupervised morning constitutionals. On Thanksgiving, Christmas, and the Fourth of July, she went with us to Grandma’s house, delighted by a swim in the lake or a seasonal treat.

Everyone loved Dixie. Something about the sight of her tiny, lightbulb-shaped head, her chubby body, and her spindly legs endeared her to everyone. She had a manner about her that put people at ease, an eagerness to please combined with a matronly wisdom. She was everyone’s friend, from the moment she met them — even forgiving the young woman who once mistook her for a pot-bellied pig.

And, like me, she took to petting and treats with a passion … perhaps, at times, to a fault. With Clyde away at Video Library, we shared many a secret mid-morning snack.

Today, without her, I’m lost. Everything reminds me of Dixie: the ringing of the breakfast bell, the sound of the patio door, the sound the television makes, the arrival of the postman. The house is too quiet, too empty, too still.

Clyde is quiet and withdrawn. We tried, and failed, to keep to our routine today; without Dixie looking on, though, our Power 90 routine, with its pounding music and jumping jacks, felt vulgar. We stopped half-way through, our hearts just not in it.

At times like these, I hope my Buddhist friends are right: I hope Dixie, having lived so well, has earned a kind of promotion … that her spirit has passed from one form to the next, having learned the lessons her soul set out to learn. I need to believe this, because the idea of a world without her sweetness is just too awful to bear.

Goodbye, good dog.Wherever you are, Dix, I hope there’s lazy sunshine, a silver lake, a comfortable bed, and lots and lots of bacon.