Sierra Blanca

Yesterday, Herself and Beloved Husband shared a meal with her parents and his parents. At one point, the discussion turned to pets.  Herself's mother mentioned that she was always terrified of one particular pet Herself and Beloved Husband had had.  She recounted that when she babysat for the Offspring, the dog in question would look at her with ears flattened, and then would hide in the bedroom.  Herself could only state that the dog had never bitten anybody and was a good dog.

This is that dog's story.

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Herself speaks.

Years and years and years ago, before there was Tiny Dog or Ottoman-shaped Dog or Giant Cheerful (who eventually became Aged and Decrepit) Dog, there was White Dog.

Named after a local mountain range with white stones, White Dog came into our lives at the time when the Offspring were very, very small.  She was our first dog.  Beloved Husband carried her into the house, a small round bundle of white fur with a pink nose. Sweet, sweet puppy, who grew into a thin, energetic, beautiful dog.  Her only issue was separation anxiety:  she would become tremendously upset away from the family.  Since I telecommuted and was otherwise at home with the young Offspring, it was not much of a problem; someone was almost always nearby.  She did fine then.

One Thanksgiving when White Dog was no more than two or three years old, I and Beloved Husband and the Offspring went to a family reunion in California.  We dropped White Dog off at the kennel recommended by the veterinarian and went on our way.  When we returned a few days later, there was a voicemail message from the kennel.  During the night, White Dog had scaled an eight-food chain-link fence and escaped.  She could not be found. White Dog was the only dog ever to have broken out of the kennel. The kennel workers were horrified, apologetic.  So sorry.

The kennel was in a desert area, with junk yards and a few commercial establishments nearby.  Beloved Husband and I looked and looked for White Dog. Every plastic grocery bag caught on the desert scrub caught our eyes -- was it White Dog?  No.  We put up fliers.  While the Offspring were at preschool and grade school, I would drive back to the area, hoping to catch a glimpse of her.  I had no success.

Eventually we had to stop looking. She was nowhere. She was gone.

I like to think that perhaps, just maybe, someone took her in and gave her a good life.  It's a fantasy, probably, but it's better to think that than to contemplate White Dog running, panicked and searching, in the dark and in an unfamiliar area, until she....

I can't even finish that sentence.  Dehydration. Coyotes. A truck. 100 possible terrible ends for White Dog.

I am sorry I was not there for you, White Dog.

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Life is a complicated, intricate, ever-branching pathway.  I know that in all likelihood, I would not have had any of my other much-loved dogs had White Dog not been Lost. I am tremendously grateful for my time with them, and cannot imagine things any other way. It is still terribly sad, though, to remember that the gain of my other dogs was borne of the loss of my first dog.

Perhaps, if the Universe is kind, she will somehow, somewhere, find Daisy and Thorbert, and she will be comforted, knowing that she is once more part of our pack.

Rest in peace, Sierra Blanca.