The sight of the open patio gate is strange to us now. For years it kept Annie, our black-and-tan “Heinz 57” of a pooch, close to home. Somewhere in that rich collection, we're sure, were bassets, beagles and other hounds. You know, the ones with the powerful noses.
When the gentlest of breezes wafted new and interesting aromas her way — the ones that a human schnozz would never detect — the gate kept her at bay and away from mischief.
It may have been her nose that led Annie from her original home and, eventually, our way. We know that she was found on a side road somewhere between the race tracks and our home during the summer of 2010. She already had a telltale scar that indicated spaying surgery. Someone cared.
Annie took up residence at the animal shelter, and her intake card estimated her age between 3 and 4 years. She was wearing out her welcome there as one of the shelter's newspaper ads described her as a "long-timer." That sounded ominous.
Robin is sure that it was love at first sight between Annie and the two of us when we visited the shelter on Nov. 20, 2010. Perhaps. But something about Annie's look seemed to say, "I'm not sure how bright you two are, but I think I can help. C'mon, take me home. I'll do my best with y'all!"
Over the next 15-and-a-half years, Annie never wore out her welcome here.
A glimpse of Annie was always good for a chuckle and an amused shake of the head. Just picture one of those 18th century Chippendale chests in an antique store, with its bowed legs. Then, add a set of thick paws that appear to have been designed by a committee of the seeing-impaired. I'd dare you not to smile.
At first, I scratched my head and wondered, how is she ever going to walk?
We were cautioned to discourage her from jumping, either up or down, as the force exerted on her corkscrew legs were sure to damage them. Hmmph, she seemed to sniff, they're my legs — I know how to use them. As school buses passed on the road beyond our fenced backyard, Annie would dash its length, bounding up and down on two pairs of 18-inch high masonry planter walls, sure that she could somehow capture the vehicles.
Over time, Robin and I discovered just how fast Annie could run. Somewhere within that genome of hounds, Aussie Cattle Dogs, and perhaps a chow, she had a touch of the hunter about her. We eyed her nearly outrunning a number of squirrels, and a few rabbits, along the way.
Now, I don't do snakes very well, and our yard has been known to occasionally entertain a few of them. As a girl living near wooded areas south of Hamlet, Robin learned how to respect and have little fear of them — under the watchful eye of her dad. Her city boy husband, on the other hand, assumes that every one of the slithery creatures is a deadly viper with a strike range of, oh, 100 yards.
Annie had little fear of them, either, as, at least once, I noted her vigorously shaking a snake clamped in her mouth. With her powerful neck, it didn't take long to dispatch the serpent.
On another occasion I raced to attempt a rescue of an unfortunate bird trapped within Annie's jaws. While I was seconds late, I kept telling myself that the playfully rambunctious pooch had only intended to make a new friend.
She loved going on walks with Robin until a couple of years ago. Wherever she was, in the backyard or on the patio, if she eyed Robin approaching the leash hanging on a hook, she raced up and began a joyful circular dance just before pausing, motionless, as Robin attached leash to collar. Something about the anticipation of a brand new scent to discover along the way was enough.
With Robin's petite frame, and Annie's muscular, compact body, we were never sure just who was walking who!
A scant few years ago, Salem sashayed into Annie's orbit. A solid black cat with translucent green eyes, we're sure that the friendly little feline fell off a Halloween carnival truck and decided to stick around. She sure discovered how to pull Annie's barking trigger. Any of the collection of other neighborhood cats would, at most, elicit a yawn from the old girl.
Almost a decade-and-a-half younger than Annie, and as agile as you can imagine, Salem knew it, too, finding delight in what seemed like a sport. Up until the end, the mailman, the garbage truck, yard blowers — and Salem — would give her lungs a workout.
Reluctantly, and with heavy hearts, we said goodbye to Annie on Dr. Will Cooley's examining table this past June 8. It was barely a tenth of a mile down the road from where we first met her 5,860 days earlier, so we had come nearly full circle. She was 19 — between 101 and 109 human years by some reckoning. Dr. Cooley and his staff were very helpful in easing her final years, but her arthritic hips had robbed Annie of her gait and, finally, of her ability to walk. Her discomfort, pain, and frustration were too much to bear.
Grieving pet owners have found solace in the poetic legend of Rainbow Bridge — the place where deceased humans and their canine or feline charges meet again in the hereafter. Former pets find new life there, free of pain, after their earthly journeys.
The glint we could see as Annie closed her aged eyes for the final time suggested she had already caught a new scent. Perhaps she sensed that Salem would come tiptoeing through our opened patio gate as early as the next day — timidly at first as she peeked for her old nemesis — but with increasing confidence that she was now in charge.
But Annie was already following her nose as her spirit ascended from that table, headed to where no gate could keep her from the trails in Rainbow's meadow.
Columnist Douglas Smith lives and writes in Rockingham.
