In 1989, a black and white Border Collie/Spaniel mix was born in Spokane, Washington. A couple of years later, after having pups of her own (I've always wondered about them), a husband and wife adopted her. The wife named her Dancer, because she herself could not dance, from an early bout with polio. Dancer went with them to a ranch in Montana, where the husband was a cowhand. Her early life consisted of following the cowboys out onto the range, trotting along in the wide open spaces. Once, she went to a lake with them, and they were amazed to find that every time they threw a fish back in, she was retrieving them and laying them down on the ground behind them - the game warden wasn't amused, but didn't fine them when she proved she was really the "fisherman". Later, she came across country in an old beat up Ford pickup, as her family was headed back to their home town in Maine. (Later, she would ride in her "large car" with me, always ducking down, or hopping into the bunk, when I had to use the side mirror to back the rig up - how did she know?) They all made it as far as Massachusetts when the money ran out. They sought refuge in a homeless shelter, but the shelter couldn't take the dog, so they refused help, too. Thankfully, someone at the shelter knew my best friend was an ACO, and would probably help, so they called her. She did - and destiny took over. Dancer's people managed to find work, and get an apartment, and get her back home. Things were very tight. We all helped them as best we could. Little did we know that, sometimes, Dancer was sharing their Rice Krispies, because they couldn't afford dog food. But, what they ate, she ate - they always shared everything with her. Just as we have always done
)
The hubby had a problem with alcohol, and things were only ok for a while. Finally, the Mrs. decided that she had to leave him for her own safety. He had not been cruel to the dog, but she feared for her safety. Little did I know that the little dog, who used to lean on me during our visits to this family, and who I secretly always wanted, would really complete the connection we made, and become mine. But, one miraculous day, I got the phone call - would I take her? I don't think I ever drove that mile so fast. I insisted on getting a bill of sale, so she would be legally mine. So, I paid $1 for the best dog that ever breathed air, and I told her mom that I would spay her and get her vaccines, and that she would have a home with me until her dying day. Which sort of brings us fast forward to today. This wonder dog, the dog who saved a human life, the dog who made so many old and disabled people smile, my lifetime heart dog, is finally telling me that it's just about time for her to go. She made every milestone, and did every chore, and made every dog dream of mine come true the whole time she's been here. She "raised" Sioux to follow in her hard to fill paw prints, to be a "wonder dog" just like her. She even stayed around to teach that little speckled monster a thing or two, and she stayed long enough for us to have a very long goodbye, not that it's any easier to let go. Now, as we must prepare to live through the awful separation time, it is no easier thinking about losing her than it has ever been. This is the time I have dreaded always. The time when the sparkle is leaving the soft, sweet brown eyes. The time when she will no longer follow me to the barn to sneak a horse poop or two. The time when her sweet bark will no longer join the "choir" of her pack. She was, and is, an elegant, stoic, leader dog with a heart as big as the biggest. She is awesomely powerful even in her frailty, and will leave the biggest empty space that has ever been left by any of her kind in any human heart. She will leave me soon. But, she is, and will always be, my "wonder dog". No greater love exists than between our souls. I love you, "Miss Dance".