After almost 10 years of trying, I’m finally taking a Disciple Bible Study class. Last night was our first session. One of the first things we did was introduce ourselves. As part of that introduction we told the name (and a brief story for most of us) of our favorite pet (current or former). I reflected back on the pets I’ve had over the years. As I tried to pick a favorite, it hit me. Blog entry! Here is a brief, but incomplete, history of my pets and, for some of them, their ultimate fate.
(Well, I was going to list several pets and their respective stories, but the first one is long. I’ll do the rest tomorrow. Today it’s one a one-dog race.)
Growing up we always had pets. We weren’t specifically a dog or cat family. We took all comers. The first pet I remember is Rory. Rory was a beautiful Irish Setter. For a short time we lived about a half-mile from Cypress Creek. This was before Florence had strict leash laws, so Rory was free to roam our neighborhood. His roaming often included the creek. In the summer he came home most days soaking wet and smelling like dead fish. Some days he didn’t come home at all. He would stay gone for 3-4 days, then show up at the front door wet, smelly, and starving. During one of his prolonged absences we were going across Cypress Creek on Florence Boulevard and just happened to see him happily swimming under the bridge as we passed.
Rory lived to the ripe old age of 11, or maybe it was 12. This, in spite of the 10 or so times he was hit by a car. It was almost as if he had a car magnet somewhere in his body. At least one of the accidents happened when he followed my dad, my brother, and I across the street to see a neighbor. On the crossing back home he ran directly in front of a car. We gathered him up out of the street and hauled him to the vet. He suffered a broken pelvis and had bladder problems for the rest of his life.
Rory died when I was 12 or 13 years old. But not before giving us some great memories. My favorite “Rory Story” starts on a family vacation to Waterloo. (Sounds exciting, I know.) We went there a few summers and rented a house on the water. We always took Rory, because he loved to swim. More than that, he loved to ride in the car. This particular year as we prepared for the trip back home we could not find Rory. We spent several hours driving up and down the narrow country roads surrounding our cabin, hanging out the windows, and calling his name. He never came back. We went home. The thrill of our vacation snuffed out by the disappearance of our friend.
We went back to Waterloo every weekend for weeks. Every time it was the same routine. Drive slowly with the windows down, calling “Rory,” and hoping to see a flash of red speeding toward us. Week after week, nothing. We continued this ritual for about 6 weeks before we gave up. Even then the trips didn’t end, just became less frequent and less hopeful.
About 3 months later we were back in Waterloo. Driving through the curvy back roads that surround the small town. After so many weeks of searching, the trips were more habit than anything. I don’t think we had any hope of success. It was turning colder; most of the leaves had fallen from the many trees that lined the narrow roads of rural Lauderdale County. We held a small sliver of hope that the thinned foliage would aid our search. We searched for a few hours with no luck. We rolled up the windows and prepared for another cheerless return home.
Suddenly I thought I saw something behind us in the distance. I told my dad and he slowed the car. Then I was sure something was there. I could see a small dot on the horizon bounding down the center of the road in our direction. Finally my dad saw it in the rear-view mirror. He turned sideways in the road and stopped the car. We all watched as the small dot grew into a speeding blur of red and orange. As it came still closer, we saw that it was indeed a dog. We soon realized, with not a little disappointment, that it wasn’t running to us. As the dog began to turn to run into the nearby woods, my dad called hopefully, “Rory.”
The dog stopped in an instant just short of the tree line. His head whipped toward our car. Suddenly he bounded toward us. My dad opened the back door and Rory leaped into the car. He was wet, tired, skinny, and smelled worse than ever before. But we hugged him the entire trip home anyway. We found our dog. Or maybe he found us?
Many years and many car tussles later we had to have Rory put down. He was old. One of his hips was constantly out of socket. And he had little to no bladder control. I remember seeing his frail, way-too-skinny body shivering in a small cardboard box the day my mom finally realized he’d had enough, or perhaps too much, of this life. We said our goodbyes, and then my mom took him for his last car trip. We were sad, of course, but we also knew that his suffering was over.
I think about Rory often. I imagine him running through heavenly creeks, rolling in as many dead fish as he can dream of, and winning every car-wrestling match he dares to enter. He was a good dog. One of many great pets I’ve had in my lifetime. I’m grateful for the memories he left me with.
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