Nikki

I didn't sleep well again last night. I was wide awake until 3:00 a.m., then awoke at 6:30, which means I'll be dragging probably most of the day. Oh well. I've settled in with a gray mug with a Cape Cod look. On the outside are a couple of rustic houses, and sailboats moored to a dock, with sea gulls circling overhead. Today's tea is Morning Thunder, by Celestial Seasonings. It's a black tea with roasted mate. It's hot, strong, and delicious.

I like the Celestial Seasonings boxes—artwork on them is beautiful. The Morning Thunder box features a snorting American buffalo standing on a grassy plain. There are more buffalo off in the distance. If I didn't like their tea so much, I'd have to buy some anyway just to have the boxes.

Today's quote: "Few men have virtue to withstand the highest bidder." – George Washington.

Nikki was the love of my life. He was a Yorkshire terrier that thought he was a Doberman pinscher. He weighed seven pounds soaking wet, but his heart was so large it had to take up his whole rib cage. I fell in love with him the first time I saw him. He was my father's dog.

I went to visit my parents one day, and the three of us were sitting in the kitchen drinking coffee when Dad suddenly stood up and went into the back bedroom. He came out, holding something behind his back. Then he set this tiny black ball of fur on the floor. It immediately started chewing on my shoe.

"This is Nikki," Dad said. "His full name is Nicodemus." I think that was the last time anyone used that big name to refer to that little dog. When I tried to pull my shoe out of his mouth he started growling, the cutest little "I have no idea how tiny I am" growl you will ever hear.

Later we went outside, and Dad and I were talking when I realized I could hear a tiny little "baroo" somewhere behind us. Nikki was sitting, looking off into the yard, and barking. "Baroo!"

I looked over and saw a plastic grocery bag. The wind was gentle that day, but it would fill the bag and give it a tumble. Then the bag would come to rest for a few seconds before the cycle repeated.

I decided to go pick up the bag and put it in the trash. As I got to Nikki, he looked up at me and gave an enthusiastic, "Yip!" Then he ran ahead a few yards, stopped, sat down, and looked over his shoulder at me. "Yip!" He repeated this behavior a couple of times, and I finally realized he saw me as "reinforcements".

Finally we got to the bag and he pounced on it and ferociously subdued it, for which I praised him enthusiastically. It was obvious from his behavior he considered himself the "big game hunter". I was smitten. How could a woman not love such a brave, heroic dog?

It wasn't long after that that my father's health began to fail, and the burden of a puppy that chewed and barked and had high energy was more than he could handle. He decided to sell the dog.

"I'll buy him," I said, expecting Dad to give him to me instead. And Dad, being Dad, of course did give the dog to me.

I stopped after work that day and took Nikki, his bed, his dishes, his food, and drove home. For days he was the saddest little dog. He just laid on his little bed, depressed, only getting up occasionally to eat, drink, or go outside. His eyes were so sad.

His coat started to look shaggy; he needed to be groomed. Dad offered to pick him up and take him to the groomer he had used. I agreed. So while I was at work, Dad got Nikki, took him for his grooming, then went back to his house. I stopped there after work and picked up the now well-coiffed Yorkie.

When we got home, I took him inside and set him down by the door. That dog, that seven-pound ball of black fur, looked up at me, looked me straight in the eye, hiked his rear leg, and peed on my carpet.

I looked at him, and realized that, from his perspective, I had kidnapped him from his home, twice. And he was mad, and he wanted me to know it.

I stared back, and probably for the only time in his life, he blinked first. Finally I bent down and picked him up and loved him. I could only imagine how unfair it must have seemed to him—he had no idea of the verbal exchanges between Dad and me. To him, I was just a large thief.

At first he held himself rigid, but when it sunk in that I wasn't going to hurt him, he relaxed a bit and licked my face, and I think finally he started to like me a little.

It was just a few days later that my younger daughter was diagnosed with mononucleosis. Half her soccer team was down with it. A couple of days after that I got the same diagnosis.

Amber, at age eight, was back to school in three weeks, but I was out three months. Poor Nikki was still pining for Dad, and I couldn't really play with him. Then one day, as I sat on the couch, I took an old dish towel Bill had left for me with my morning coffee and waved it in front of Nikki's face. He looked up at me, and then took a corner of the towel in his mouth and gave it little tug. I pulled back, and he pulled, and I pulled. Thus our daily ritual started.

Sometimes I would let him win, and he was so smug. He would chew on the towel, just out of my reach, to show me he was in control. But eventually he would bring it back and we'd play tug again. He finally started to settle in.

When I went back to work, it was difficult for both of us to be parted. He really loved me by that time, and he was my dog. All mine. He liked Bill and the girls well enough, but he was MY dog. I have no doubt that little Yorkie would have died protecting me, without ever giving a thought to himself.

In September, 2001, Nikki was fifteen years old. He was blind and deaf, and his kidneys were starting to fail. I was constantly cleaning up after him, but it was okay. After all—I loved him. But when he could no longer control his bowels, it became more of a health concern. I put it off as long as I could, but finally I called and made an appointment with a mobile vet unit.

The appointment was for Wednesday, September 12, and of course there was the attack on the World Trade Center in New York on the eleventh. I called my sister-in-law Cindy, who had recently gone through this with her dog, and told her what was happening. God love her, she simply said, "I'm on my way."

The vet unit arrived first, and it was one of the most painful experiences of my life. I can't describe what it felt like to have that little dog put down.

When Cindy arrived, she said, "Let's get out of here. We'll get lunch."

She took me to Panera Bread, a place we both loved, and I ordered a sandwich, and I can't say what kind. But when I tried to eat it, the bread tasted like cardboard, and the meat… The meat made me gag.

Bill and I had made reservations at a condo in Destin, Florida, for the following week. I cried the entire week. I cried for the people in the World Trade Center, and the ones on the hijacked planes. I cried for their families. I cried for the country. And I cried for Nikki, who was gone, and for me, because I missed him so much.

I couldn't eat meat of any kind for two months after the trip to Panera Bread. It sounds crazy, but it was like the World Trade Center travesty and losing Nikki got all jumbled in me emotionally, and it manifested itself in revulsion to meat. But Thanksgiving was coming up, and it was my turn to cook the turkey.

I didn't really know how to tell the family that I couldn't make the turkey, because I didn't think I could articulate my feelings, or that they would understand. I decided to tough it out, and I expected it was going to be an ordeal, but to my surprise it wasn't a problem at all. I roasted the bird, and then I ate turkey along with everyone else. The curse had lifted.

When September eleven comes around this year, it will be the tenth anniversary of the World Trade Center. I expect it will be a difficult time for many Americans. The next day will mark ten years since I lost Nikki. And I can only say, I still miss him.

But just as I know Sally Mae is following St. Peter from cloud to cloud, I'm certain Nikki is standing sentry in front of the pearly gates, barooing to warn any evil entities, "You will not pass. Not on my watch." He was that kind of dog.

I hope you have a peaceful and restful day. God bless you.