Dexter's Story
(I wrote this about ten months ago before his health deteriorated. We had to say goodbye to Dexter when he was suffering, but he left my parents' home with many fun memories.)
I
thought they left. Just as I finished barking at various trespassers and
started to doze on the green couch, I heard the cacophony of children yappin
and squealin. “They” bounded inside, without any grace I might add.
Francy
and her pack of five came on Sunday. Their noise spanned an octave from the
short female’s: “Awww... Dexter” to the largest male’s: “What’s up?” The
grandkids, as they’re called by Good Boy, are tolerable for a day or two visit,
but something was wrong this time. I knew down to my tail life would be messed
up for a while.
On
Monday the wind howled louder than Rudy next door, and trees danced and bowed
to a prince I couldn’t see. I barked my best, but couldn’t stop this monster
everyone kept calling Sandy. Then something went “Crack!” like a bolt of
lightning. It was the squirrel’s tree—upside down with angry roots stretched in
the air. The house turned black as the deepest whole I’ve ever dug.
Night
after night, no movie time to curl up on Good Boy’s lap, no treats, and no room
on the couch (kids hogged the soft spot.) Finally, on Thursday they drove off
and I thought I could relax. But like I said, they came back.
This
time with their little Yorkie terror, Keyra.
“Oh
no!” I barked out loud when I saw her. For some unknown reason, everyone assumes
we should be best friends. Okay, we are distantly related—I’m Westie, so also
of the noble terrier family—but she, well, she has no class.
I
tried my best to ignore her, rest my head, and close my eyes while she circled
around me jumping and yapping. Did she think I would want to play chase with
her? I’m eighty-seven years old. It’s a good day if I can make it outside to do
my business.
I
overheard Good Boy describing Francy’s house after Sandy came to visit there as
well. Not good news. Sounded like Sandy filled her house with water. What a
bully. Then it hit me—Francy and her pack weren’t fish, so they might be staying
for like…forever?
Each
day Keyra stayed, she got more comfortable. She took over my guarding post on
the couch; she barked at visitors; she even napped on Good Boy’s lap. And she
never understood my low growls to claim my territory. I tried to be nice, but
she liked to irritate me…so I can’t be blamed for snapping at her. Especially
the day she wiggled under the recliner, found a plastic cup I hid, and pranced
down the hall, crunching on it just to see what I’d do. I charged after her with
puppy speed, barked and bit her leg til she dropped the cup.
I
pranced back to jump up on my favorite spot as she hid in the other room. See,
this is my house, Keyra. My cup, my couch, my Good Boy.
The
next day, Keyra kept her distance, although she still followed me outside every
time as if we were on the same schedule. And she may have ‘roofed’ an apology.
Through one squinted eye, I watched her. Her brown bangs shaded her face giving
her a pathetic look.
As
my irritation subsided, I recalled the description of their home, Keyra’s home.
I imagined how she felt, losing all her hidden bones and pizza crust in a wave.
She had nothing to guard or protect so she lost her job too. No wonder she
tried to take over this house.
Two
weeks later, as Francy and the kids crammed into a stuffed car and waved
goodbye, I actually felt a twinge of something; maybe I would miss them, even
miss Keyra’s bark. Of course I came to my senses when I curled up on my
favorite warm spot. Even a rabbit couldn’t bother me now.
********
I
thank Dexter for telling me his point of view on this true story. Even during a
time of trial and losing so much, God gave us moments of laughter and is still
keeping us focused on what really matters in life.
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