If there were plaques given monthly for the employee with the most golden stars, Callie's would be the face plastered all over the wall in the hallway next to the public restrooms, right around the corner from the customer service desk. All the other employees should be jealous. Everything she does she does well. If it's guarding the out of doors, she does it with panache; if it's resting, she's in the coolest spot in the house splayed out on the tile in the kitchen in the middle of everyone's feet; if it's displaying happiness, she has the toothiest, most satisfying dog smile you've ever seen; if playful, she loopdeeloops the front room to the hallway to the kitchen with the best of 'em, pausing in pounce mode occasionally just to make sure you're still watching.
But when it comes to begging, Callie is the most dedicated of all her colleagues. Incredibly patient in her strategy, she'll calmly sit directly before you with the most serene, expectant expression, vacillating her gaze between you, the eater, and the food she wishes would be shared. She will eventually scoot ever so much closer to you, but at the speed of a tortoise, so that you've hardly noticed until it's almost too late. Once you have noticed, however, if you tell her to take two steps back she'll remove her gaze from the food she was so close to scoring and look you in the eyes while taking exactly two steps back. Very innocent, very endearing, very Callie.
Callie used to have actual competition in the house. Sisters from the same litter, Maggie and Callie were threatened with death by drowning in a river in the mass grave of a farmer's sack. My mom's friend couldn't stand to let her brother-in-law do such a thing so she drove across the state to rescue a dozen great pyrenees/blue heeler puppies. The result was a sea of fluff-balls in our front lawn in Oklahoma, adults and children corralling canines in a circle, giggles escaping our throats, our faces plastered with smiles as big as the river from which the pups had escaped. The task to choose only one was met with the opposition of four children each with a heart inclined toward a different puppy. Parental compromise was made and the 4K's were allowed to keep the puppy of their choosing for a group trial period, the end of which would result in three broken-hearted youngsters and one chosen family pet. We went to sleep that night with four yippy voices in the garage and four pleading voices in the house: "Why must they stay out there? Can't you hear them? They're so sad!" Our cold-hearted parents were adamant, but I had the privilege of seeing their wisdom as I push-broomed heaps of infant dog poo out the garage door the next morning.
At the end of the trial period, no one could settle on a fair choice, so Dad wrote descriptions of the puppies on pieces of paper and drew one description out of a hat. This was how Callie came to be ours. A perfect mixture of the two breeds, her fur was calico and she was of a medium build. In the next few months we learned that she enjoyed corners and squeezing into the under sides of furniture. We were riveted as her little legs grew and she learned how to climb the stairs. She. Was. Adorable.
It was then that a wrench was thrown into Callie's serene existence. A new dog. A visiting dog. Her sister. Not amidst the heap of fluff that afternoon in our front yard, Maggie had been kept by her rescuer, with the intention of serving as a companion to a full-grown pyrenees... and a cat. But the cat wasn't consulted in this decision nor was it keen on this idea. As most cats are want to do, cat had to demonstrate its level of hierarchy, and Maggie's eye quickly learned to what extent that cat disdained her new 'companion' (read: competition, or, servant). A smaller puppy only served as batting practice for her swinging paws. I don't remember how long we kept Maggie while her family was out of town, but during that time we bonded over administering medicine to her wounded eye and lots of comforting pets. Callie and Maggie also bonded and she quickly seemed like part of the family. I remember attempting to withhold my love, because she wasn't promised to be mine, but when her family returned they asked if we wanted to keep her. From that moment on Maggie was mine.
More pyrenees in build and shape, Maggie had longer black hair, a beautiful curly tail, and the most beautiful white socks with black spots on her feet. The end of her tail looked as if it'd been accidentally dipped in a can of white paint, and her belly matched her feet. She was elegant, and I think she knew it. But she was fiercely loyal and extremely protective of me. She was my running buddy, my cuddle buddy, and she would lean so hard into me with her hello that both of us would begin to tip over.
There are two events etched in my memory related to when Mags and Cals escaped. In our chain link fencing where the gate met the body of the fence there was a gap. Insufficient construction or shifting of land over time caused it, I suppose, but whatever the reason, Dad had jerry-rigged a piece of plywood to the gate as an extension to fill in the hole. Still, the dogs somehow escaped. Therefore, on the same street where at a younger age we would host 'leaf races', a game played in the rain where you must carefully follow your own leaf before it was obstructed by a stick or went down the drain, I threw open the front door and sprinted after my own dog, who at this point had grown to around 65 pounds. My family had recently begun training under our friend in his start-up Crossfit gym, so I felt primed to practice those functional movements that Crossfit loves so much. With adrenaline pumping in my chest I caught up to her, squatted, grabbed her under the legs and performed a move between a dead-lift and a clean, and held her close to my chest and carried her all the way home, so that this functional real life workout also incorporated a bit of a sandbag carry, but instead of a dead-weight non-living thing, I was carrying a squirmy, sleek-haired dog.
The other event was more tiresome on our emotions as the dogs were both gone overnight. We couldn't find them anywhere. We performed the typical search for your dog maneuvers, asking local neighbors, throwing ourselves into cars - windows down, yelling said dogs names, heads hanging out car windows so that those extra few inches would increase our dog-sighting abilities, enlisting friends to drive around, too... to no avail. Our house was heavy and forlorn that evening as we felt the vacancy of our live-in creatures.
We attempted to go about our normal lives the following day, (I still haven't perfected the art of compartmentalizing) and late in the afternoon Mom spotted them. Across a busy street and lining the length of Rock Creek Road there was this natural woodland area called Sutton Wilderness. One of the first things I did with my Dad when I was young was to ride our bikes to the trail. For Dad it was a much slower, more boring ride, but for me at that age, the mile to the trailhead on a street with cars was tiptoeing the edge of possible death, but traversing the trail made death's escape well worth it. Connected to the border of Sutton Wilderness and right across the street from our neighborhood was a really large cemetery. It was filled in the center with the kind of stone markers that to a kid's eyes looked like houses - the kind you could walk right in but never leave - (you might be stuck, but you had room to walk!), but also had modest ancient markers right next to the street so that I loved to attempt reading them while waiting for a traffic light to turn green. It was this border where our dogs were sighted, gallivanting about with no care for the heartaches they'd caused their human family. It took a bit of coaxing to lure them home away from their playground of new smells, new tastes, and free range.
Wholly unexpectedly, Maggie died four years ago during my sophomore year at school. She had to be put down suddenly due to a quick growing cancerous tumor in her jaw. A text message received in between classes in the middle of Day of Prayer brought me the news. While waiting for my keyboarding classroom door to be unlocked, I read the text, and in cinematic dramatic fashion slid down the wall on the fourth floor of Fitzwater Hall. My heart felt like it stopped. I cried dragon-sized tears and my friend took me out for comfort donuts.
Four years later, and now in my third week visiting Albuquerque post graduation, we were prepared for Callie not to return home from a trip to the vet. She's been exhibiting signs of being in lots of pain, is fourteen years old, and for a while now has had tumors that we have checked on annually. We've been shocked she's made it this far. I've left home from school breaks hugging her neck with tears running down my face in anticipation that it would be my last time to see her, probably three times now. I said goodbye for the fourth time yesterday, but she returned, tired, but happy to be walking in the front door. She's the clock that keeps ticking. The fluff-ball that loves well; and the beggar with persistence.
Dear Callie-dog, this is my ode to you: thank you for your comforting, fluffy fur that you let me bury my face in. Thanks for tolerating Keanan when he uses you as a pillow and doesn't care for your level of comfort - you let him do it, anyway. Thank you for your delighted dance when we say those familiar words, "wanna go for a walk?!" and the way you corral us until we've gone for your leash. Thanks for the way you communicate you're ready for chow-town. We say, "are you hungry, Callie?" and you respond by licking your chops, but never before we've asked the question. Thank you for always being excited for us to return home. You may have gotten older, and you don't always spring from your rest, but you wag your tail and look our way. Thank you for remembering me. I've been away for a year at a time, and each time I return you run to me with your biggest toothy grin and bury your head in my legs and lean in like there's no tomorrow. Thank you for sitting on the front porch with me. We no longer have one in New Mexico, they aren't quite the rage they were in Oklahoma, but I like to crouch on the front step, and you sit next to me while I hold your collar so you won't chase other dogs, neighbors, or cars going by. Thanks for sniffing the thunder-storm laden sky with me when we get rare storms in ABQ. I get excited and like to crack the front door for you to smell the change in the air with me. I can tell you're usually like, 'hmm, this is weird, but thanks for the experience, human'. Oh, you definitely judge me when I'm weird, but you let me be myself without interruption except for your concerned, 'is everything okay?' look.
Sweet Callie, you have been faithful. You have been around just under half of my lifetime, and in doggy years you are well out of your youth. You've kept the grounds safe, you've kept us comforted, you've made us laugh, you've made us smile. You escaped the death of an angry farmer, you've pounced through hills of snow, you've traveled through three states, you've tasted mountain glory, you've barked at hot air balloons, you've been sprayed by skunks, and you did God knows what in a cemetery and wilderness area. I'm so glad you're still around, but when you decide to go, you've lived well, fluffer-pup. You've lived well.
