Ode to Shelby

I remember the day we got you in August 1997. You were the most timid of your siblings running around in the yard at the Humane Society. We received a call that a pack of border collie puppies had arrived and we dashed down to make our selection. We had been waiting for the notification from a friend who volunteered there for some time. I had your name picked out for at least two years before I convinced that other human we were living with at the time that we should get a puppy. I would call you Shelby, after the road sign off of I85 heading north towards North Carolina. Never expecting to have kids, I liked the name (for humans or animals) and figured I might use it for you. Plus, it had good “Southern twang potential” that I could call out the back door in a suitable Southern way…”Sssshhhhellllbyyyy.” Making a two syllable word into a four syllable word in good Southern style.

You were the shy one of the group. Barely made eye contact when I looked at you. Your siblings ran right up to us, but I resisted their advances and went to you, off on your own, eyes turned down and away toward anything but human eyes. My grandmother, who had worked in a veterinarian’s office for years was so right – “Choose the runt”, she said, “they make the best dogs.” And you have been the best dog.

Halloween parade - Shelby as "dog at work"

At a mere six weeks old you were simply a fuzz ball with bad breath and incredibly sharp puppy teeth. I took you to puppy school and soon learned that you had great potential and were pretty smart. I also learned that I was not destined to be the best dog trainer as I couldn’t bear the thought of you fearing me. I wanted us to be friends resulting in my never achieving “alpha” status and you pulling on your leash on walks for most of your life. But we worked most of the rest of it out. You came when I called developing a rather large vocabulary. At your peak you were capable of getting the exact toy I requested, “Go get ‘Bite the Man’” and you would specifically retrieve that toy. “Go get W” and you come trotting back with a plastic George W. Bush head in your mouth. “Last call” was your signal to go out one last time before turning in for the night.

You managed through “joint custody” for a time during what was one of the most difficult times in my life. You seemed to understand the pain I was in and would lay for hours by my side occasionally even licking away my tears. I’m not sure I would have made it without you.

Shelby and her friend Jerry

You loved walks, rides in the car and treats (what we called your dog biscuits). You had a weakness for squirrels and practically dislocated my shoulder on numerous occasions in hot pursuit. You had a love, hate, love relationship with cats  (and I, along with Jerry – my landlords’ cat, are happy you’ve ended on a positive note with that one). You like turkey and peanut butter (although not together). You can catch popcorn pieces tossed in the air. Your unfailing loyalty greets me whenever I return from travels to far off lands. You seem to have forgiven me for my long absences, almost instantly.

We have lived in four different homes, you and I, but have landed in dog paradise here on OldOaks Farms. For the last four and half years we have both been surrounded by goats, dogs, cats, horses, chickens and the most amazing landlords that have made us feel “at home” and loved (so much so that I really have little desire to move in to the house that I actually own!).

But now at 14 you are aging. The changes since I left in May seem dramatic. You can’t see very well nor can you hear much but very loud voices (the advantage is that you are no longer terrified of thunder or gunshot rounds!). Your gait is strained – short quick steps with the front legs and longer slower ones in back. You can no longer jump to lie on the bed and look out the window and you struggle to make it into your favorite chair to sleep (but you’re still managing that).

Shelby with her summer hair cut

It is a horrible burden and great responsibility to choose when it is time to relieve you from your pain. It is hard not to be selfish and keep you for as long as you’ll stay. Last night you wandered around the cottage endlessly in the dark as if you were lost. Doggy dementia? This morning when I brought the trash can to the curb you escorted me back to the house with a bouncy trot (at least for a brief moment). So…today is not the day. But it will come soon, a matter of months? weeks? days? And I will miss you like the desert misses the rain.