Someone broke her hip before she came into our
lives. And someone had hurt her. Hurt her bad. It took a year before she would
accept pats. She never squatted right as she favored one leg.
She came to us as a trade. She had nipped at a baby
who probably got too close to that hip. We traded a docile golden retriever and
this little piece to spunk entered our family.
Because one of us was a dog person and one of us was
the maintenance, Ivy soon became Mike’s best girl and from that day on, she
lived a golden life. She took priority seating at any guitar concert. She got
the best pillows on the bed. She sat with doleful eyes at the side of the
master when it was dinner time. He would not resist her pleading eyes. On
occasion, the cook received instructions about the level of seasoning: Ivy
doesn’t like that. Ivy prefers more of that.
At an infamous veterinarian appointment, when Dr.
Bob offered a treat, she snatched it away, not really biting but using certainly
teeth to get at the goodie. Dr. drew back and sniffed. “Typical of dogs who get
fed from a fork,” he said to non-Mike.
Ah, but is any pet, any fury family member, typical?
Mike loved her: she sat next to him on the seat of
his truck. In later years, she was a common sight wherever he would go. Dairy
Queen and Wendy’s recognized them in the drive through and would get her goodie
going.
She also learned the halls of Oakbrook Church,
Hollingsworth lumber and Moody’s Cycle. All the humans there maintained a snack
stash for Ivy.
On a sunny day in June, 2013, she climbed up on the
bed and said goodbye to her guy. And since then, she had been my companion and
reminder of a sweet man.
Today, if you believe as we do, she joins her guy
running free. Good girl, Ivy.
