One of my earliest memories is from when I was still living in Cincinnati. I was about four and I remember being pounced on by a large black dog. I can recall the snout forward, jaws open, paws outstretched tackle - though this memory may be influenced more by movies than the actual event. The dog left me scared of its canine brethren for much of my adolescent years. So much so that when I moved to Indiana, I avoided certain activities where I might encounter such creatures. I decided to pick up safe activities like bike riding, playing "war" in various backyards throughout my new neighborhood, and paperboying. For some reason, dogs seemed set on seeking me out and destroying me.There was the time that I was chased all the way home into my garage by a mongrel while riding my Huffy. It was so close to my heels that it got stuck in the door as I ran into the house. There was the time I followed the advice to "just stay still and back away slowly" while I was hunting snails in the creek only to be hounded again. At least as a paperboy with my cumbersome paper carrier and daily news, I had some sort of protective gear and a weapon, though the dogs seemed to sense my newfound embattlements because I don't recall them being anything but a burden.
You can understand why I was less than pleased when I was playing basketball on a summer afternoon at a neighbor's house, I turned to see my parents get out of the van with my sisters and Dollie, our new dog. Over the next couple of days I plotted a strategy of dealing with this new adversary that had used her "puppy wiles" to get into my house. I decided to overcome my fear and make peace with my new family member. I had dreams of becoming good at baseball finally by hitting ball after ball in the yard and having Dollie retrieve them. Dollie, it turned out though, had other ideas. She preferred to mostly lay around and eat treats. Sometimes, she would jump over cushions that we would set for her and point to possible disturbances in the backyard, but overall she was decidedly an indoor dog. Over the next decade, Dollie and I never really became close but we would sometimes share the couch for a nap or go on walks together.
Dollie is now 15 and is joined in our house by Jack, a fellow Brittany and 50-pound lap dog. She has become grayer in the face, a little forgetful, and somewhat lumpy. She has large fatty tumors covering her body and has recently been losing her balance more frequently.
A few days ago, we were told that Dollie has cancer. My family hasn't had to deal with death much, all of my grandparents are still alive as are all close family and friends. Occasionally, a high school friend would pass away, but the only funerals that I've attended have been those that I served as an alterboy at in grade school.
Dollie has made me less afraid of dogs and hopefully I've added a little happiness to her life. The news of her cancer, and the idea of having to face Dollie's death isn't shocking. She is an old dog that has been steadily deteriorating. I've always tried to live by Wolfshiem's maxim from the Great Gatsby: Let us learn to show our love for someone when they are alive, and not after they are dead. I'm confident I've done that with my dog, Dollie.
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The name Dollie was originally Adrena though that spelling may be wrong. The spelling of Dollie is up for constant debate in my family. My grandmother wanted to name her after the first lady, Dolley Madison, a gracious hostess with a sassy, ebullient personality, whose most lasting achievement was her rescue of valuable treasures, including state papers and a Gilbert Stuart George Washington from the White House before it was burned by the British army in 1814. However, that seemed to a little too stuffy for me as a grade schooler and I enjoyed singing "Hello, Dolly" in a gruff Louis Armstrong voice so I proposed Dolly. When that didn't fly, I decided just to be contrary and have since spelled her name "Dollie".
