Sallie Mae

I'm drinking Constant Comment tea today. It's nothing exotic, but I love the spicy, citrus taste. Drinking Constant Comment is like eating meatloaf and mashed potatoes and gravy—pure comfort. My mug is adorned with Greek columns and the quote, "I can do all things through Christ, which strengthens me." (Philippians 4:13).

As luck would have it, as I tried to read the quote to make sure I typed it correctly I managed to spill some into the key board. Thank goodness I don't use sweetener, else it could have been a "sticky" situation (excuse the bad pun). So I just held the keyboard over the trash can and poured out the tea.

I did this same thing at work a number of years ago, but with a whole mug of coffee (also, thankfully, unsweetened). I called the tech who took care of our equipment and practically cried at him. He laughed and said, "Do you think you're the first one who did that? Just hold it over the trash and drain it. It will be fine when it dries." He was right.

I'm going to start a new thing today: a daily quote. Today's quote is from W. Somerset Maugham: "Any nation that thinks more of its ease and comfort than its freedom will soon lose its freedom; and the ironical thing about it is that it will lose its ease and comfort too." We might be close.

This week I'm blogging about pets. Last month I lost a dear friend, Sallie Mae. I cry every day. She was such company, and such fun. Some of the things I miss about her:

The way she stretched. She would spread out her toes as she pushed against the floor, rump in the air, then give her tail a wag as she looked at me with her, "Did you say something?" look.

I miss the way she followed me from room to room. If I went to the bedroom, she would lay down just outside the door, guarding me. If I moved to another room, she did the same thing. I was cleaning and doing laundry one day, and I moved from room to room putting away clothes and moving mislaid things to their proper places. That poor dog tried to keep up with me, even though I explained she didn't have to—she could just find a comfortable place and take a nap. But she seemed to feel she had to follow me. Finally, after an hour or so, she finally gave up in frustration and plopped down right in the middle of the hall, which forced me to then walk around her as I finished my work. As she was not a small dog (as Bill once said, "when Sally lays around the house, she lays around the house"), I really got my exercise that day.

Sally dreamed when she slept. And while she dreamed she usually barked. Not loud. But I would be sitting in some room, with Sally Mae lying in the doorway, and when she got into deep sleep I would hear her. It would start with a soft "Woof." Then a few seconds later, "Woof! Woof!" And a few seconds after that, "Woof, woof, woof! Woof, woof, woof, woof!" The woofs would get louder until she finally woke herself up. Then she would look around as if trying to figure who, or what, dared disturb her slumber.

One thing I didn't like was that she shed A LOT. We could put her outside and vacuum, but as soon as she came back in the cloud of hair that always surrounded her came in, too, and settled into all the corners that had just been vacuumed. Her hair actually came out in huge clumps, and when I took her outside, armed with a brush, a comb, and a bag, I could fill the bag in just a few minutes. And still she would have her hair cloud.

I even miss her hair.

She started going downhill several weeks before she died. I noticed she wasn't herself and we took her to the vet. She was diagnosed with severe anemia, but the vet had no idea why. Over the next weeks I fried lots of hamburgers in a cast iron skillet and plied her with pills to try to raise her iron level, and it worked. For a few days she was her old self.

But then she started to flag again, and one Friday morning I got up and she followed me to the bathroom, as always, but suddenly her rear feet just dropped out from under her and she collapsed. She started panting really hard, and I yelled for Bill. We bundled her into the car, not dreaming of what was coming. We had to drop her off, as the vet was in surgery, but the attendant assured us she would be looking at Sally at her first opportunity.

I got the call later that she was gone. The vet said she had had an aneurism. She suspected Sally had a tumor or growth in her chest that was causing the anemia, and that it had finally grown so large that it had ripped open a vein. I couldn't believe it. "Sally Mae is gone." The words hurt so much it's hard to describe.

I have one regret (there are always regrets). The bed she slept on was lumpy. I bought foam and fleece to make her a new bed, but I put it off. I felt so bad that I hadn't gone ahead and just made the darn bed. But then I think, Sally was happy. She was well-fed. Got regular checkups and saw the vet when she was sick. She got the usual meds, fresh food and water daily, and the peanut butter biscuits she loved several times each day. She got to come and go as she pleased, and was well-loved. It was a dog's life.

Now I'm left with the foam and fleece, but no dog. I started to give it away, but in the back of my mind there's that thought, "Maybe we'll get another dog." I hated to type it, because it seems disloyal, like I'd be replacing her, but I know there's no dog that could ever replace her—it would have to make its own place in my heart.

A person who doesn't have and love pets would not understand this post. A person who has and loves pets will understand perfectly. Sally Mae wasn't just a dog--she was a true friend. A month later, I still cry for the loss of Sally Mae, but I figure she's in Heaven following St. Peter from cloud to cloud. I wonder if they have to vacuum them every day.

Have a wonderful day, and God bless you.