If a person is very, very lucky, once in their life they will have a dog like Roxanne.  She came along at a time in my life that was dark and threatening, long on pain and fear and short on love and comfort.  She was from a litter pulled from under a house in East Dallas: her mother gone to the dogcatcher and she not yet weaned.  She was the granddaughter, as it turns out, of Friend, the wonderful old dog that belonged to Kenny Goldman.  I stood in the shower with her terrified little form hugged to my chest while we washed the grime and fleas and feces off of her.  We curled up together to sleep that night, and for many nights to come, holding on to each other like two desperate people in a lifeboat on a stormy sea, waiting for rescue.

And rescue did come.  Life became full of hope and light and love and has continued that way until last Monday, when Roxy decided it was a good day to die.

 We have shared so much over the years: rich memories just tumble out of my mind, falling over one another to get out.  Roxy was always extremely possessive of me, to the point that I was concerned that she would bite visitors or other dogs.  So, off to obedience school we went.  The school lasted eight weeks, and we practiced each day at home, over and over again.  At first, I was concerned that the other class members or their dogs might present a petition to the instructor asking that we be terminated – she was that aggressive and had lunged for several owners and/or their dogs.  At some point, however, it sunk in, and Rox developed great manners.  At the conclusion of Rox’s exercises in front of the class at the commencement, Rox got a standing ovation.  I think the other owners were relieved that they made it through the class without either they or their pets sustaining a direct attack.

Manners did not impede Rox’s sense of mission, however.  No way.  Her custom was to escort dinner guests from the dining room to the bathroom and back, accompanied by a piercing stare that told guests that they were here by her leave, which would be promptly withdrawn if they ventured to any forbidden portion of the “den”.  On another occasion, she “protected” my jeep from passerby who ventured too close by eating the jeep’s dash and leather side panels.  No doubt that great fear struck the hearts of the passerby.  She and Marian would line up at the front door and inspect new dates, Marian with a smile but Roxy with a slight curl of the lip, a very discreet show of teeth and an almost imperceptible growl.  Many a man proved too faint hearted to pass that gauntlet.  Until Carl that is.  When Carl appeared, Rox clearly understood that she had met her match.  She would not risk a direct confrontation with the new alpha dog.  Instead, she waited until Carl had moved in, and began to deposit small piles of poop among his things in the study.  As if to say “you may be alpha dog in name, but you will not bend my will.”

In spite of vastly improved manners, Rox retained one bad habit.  When she got more than 75-100 feet from me, she became absolutely, inexplicably and implacably deaf.  Early one Sunday morning, she and Carl were in the front yard, and Rox decided to go to town.  Being more than 100 feet away from Carl, she simply turned towards town and headed off.  Alpha dog called to her, but she was deaf to his command.  Alpha dog decided that he had had enough, and headed off towards her.  Roxy noticed, with some alarm, that Alpha dog was out for blood.  So she decided to head for Mama.  She dove into the woods, made a large circle around the house, crawled under the deck and made a bolt up the steps for the back door.  Alpha dog had surmised her intent and, bathrobe flying, had circled the other direction around the house, leapt the deck railing and met her at the back door.  The moment of truth had arrived.  Alpha dog grabbed her by the ruff and talked very loud and very ugly to her for several minutes.  At that moment, Rox made a decision.  If Alpha dog was man enough for her mama, and in order to keep peace in the family and avoid any more of that very ugly talk, she would accept Alpha dog from that moment on.  And she did.

Rox accompanied me on many of my adventures: on several occasions she and I would throw a bedroll and a camera in the Datsun, or in later years, the Jeep, and head out.  We explored New Mexico, Arizona, Colorado, Montana and Idaho.  On one occasion, headed from Montana to Moscow, Idaho to visit Jenny and Paul one Christmas, we were nearly lost in the snow in the pass east of Cour d’Alene.  Always, Rox sat on the console, peering intently through the windshield, assessing the dangers ahead.  One of our favorite places was the Pacific Northwest, where Rox would stand in the ocean and let the surf pick her up and set her down, with a grin on her face.  In fact, while the ocean was a special place for Rox, any lake where she could swim suited her just fine.  She spent many hours at Lake Fork, when Carl and I had a lake place there, chasing ducks halfway across the lake.  She never, never seemed to tire.

But finally, tire she did.  We spent a wonderful weekend swimming and just hanging out.  Rox and I would sit on the dock, side by side.  We would discuss the meaning of life while I scratched her ears.  When she thought I had hit on something important, she would turn and look at me intently to say “okay, that part’s important – remember that.”  When we got back to Dallas after the weekend, it was clear that, like Chief Joseph, she had decided that it was a good day to die.  She refused food and water, and looked at me with that long and tender look that says “please let me go”.  Both of the other dogs lay nearby, in a deathwatch, and would not leave the room unless I forced them.  By the next morning, I realized that, try as I might, I could not prevail over either Mother Nature or the will of Roxy.  So I called the vet and Roxy died quietly, cradled by Carl and I.

Roxy was not a sweet dog.  She ate carpet tacks for breakfast.  She was a warrior: brave, fierce and loyal.  She brought out those qualities in me.  In fact, Rox was an angel with fur on.  It is no accident that “god” spelled backwards is “dog”.  She was sent to be my light in a tough time of my life.  We were kindred spirits in a way that is beyond words to explain.  And Carl and I are so very grateful to have shared our lives for so long with such a remarkable being.

“It was a helluva party, Woodrow”.

Aimee