Erin is my best friend—and my sweet girl. She’s getting old
now, but thirteen years ago, she was a little pup who easily fit into my arms
and won my heart. I didn’t name
her. Someone at animal protection did, but as a lover of the Emerald Isle, I
never considered changing her name.
An animal protection agency had invaded an area
bookstore. The group showcased
several puppies and kittens for sale. I looked at a round ball of fur wagging
her tail and was smitten. She was
a vision of auburn fur and white paws.
My hair color minus the white socks! She could be my kid minus the long
snout and four legs! I’d never seen a prettier puppy. The shelter workers told
me she was probably part Corgi and part Sheltie.
Of course, I already had a dog and was living with my unwell
mother. The sheltie we already
owned was beautiful, prissy, aged, and set in her ways. My mother also was set in her ways.
Mama said she and Myah, the Sheltie, were on the same speed. (My mother had an amazing sense of
humor all her life.) Myah didn’t like this puppy that had invaded her
space. Erin wanted to play too
often and even grasped Myah by the fur. The Sheltie was horrified! How
impertinent, whipper -snapper! The old dog would bark at the puppy and move
behind the safety of a bookcase.
When Myah died, Erin took over as princess of the house—not
that her new rank altered her mischievous personality. She chewed the buttons off a blouse,
gnawed her way through an Irish blanket, and tore a hole in my bed sheets. My mother fumed, shook a newspaper at
the wild thing, but never struck her.
When I trained her to behave well, Erin was rewarded with delectable
treats.
After a year, Erin settled down and into our hearts. I held her at night while I watched
television. She slept in my arms
like a baby. My mother fed her
treats, and she followed us around like a shadow. At night, she and I cuddled together, my arm thrown over
her. In the morning, I would
awaken to find her so close she was almost in my skin.
When my mother was really ill, Erin was her four-legged
bodyguard and best friend. She
adored the sitters and watched the home health people with suspicion as they
worked on my mother. She remained alert to my mother’s every need. If Mama called for me at night, she
jumped on the bed to awaken me. She stood in the doorway, poised, until I was
up and tending to my mother. Only
then would she jump back into my bed and hurl herself onto the pillows.
Now, my precious girl is an old lady. She is susceptible to infections and
has back trouble. Two weeks ago,
she woke up and couldn’t walk. She’s
better now, but I know that old dogs—like old people—don’t live forever. That crushes me. She’s been my best
friend and little baby for a long time.
