Dogs. This word alone has the power to evoke cherished memories for some of us. History tells us that dogs came into our lives about fifteen thousand years ago. In some far off land and time long
forgotten, cave people and wolves co-mingled and began what is now a strong and loving bond.
We are told that dogs are domesticated wolves, and that every breed can trace its lineage back to them. Well, wherever they come from, I am glad that they share their lives with us. What I do find hard to understand is how a tiny tea-cup Chihuahua can possibly be related to a Great Dane or Irish Wolfhound. It seems almost impossible that this was all achieved through selective breeding. However, the wolf hasn’t disappeared altogether.
Most dogs are affectionate, playful, obedient, protective, and eternally loyal. My father was a minister and in one of his sermons, he talked about a little Skye Terrier known as Greyfriars Bobby. His master, John Gray, was a night-watchman for the Edinburgh Police Constabulary. Each night, John walked the city streets to make sure all was well, and, little Bobby was always by his side.
When John died and was buried, Bobby could not be persuaded to leave his master’s grave and indeed, stayed next to that grave for 14 years. The people of Edinburgh were so impressed by his
loyalty that they commissioned a life-sized bronze statue of Bobby. Bobby and his beloved story have become part of Edinburgh’s history.
One dog remains in my heart. Her name was Zsoka, and she belonged to my dad. My parents adopted this little fur ball while they lived in Pennsylvania. Zsoka’s parentage was undetermined but was supposedly a cross between a Shepherd and a Collie. Zsoka was the runt of the littler and my father was discouraged from choosing her. Undeterred, dad picked her up and was so small, she fit onto the palm of his hand.
Their eyes met. Her tiny tail gave a tentative wag, while her pink tongue licked his thumb. That was
all it took for the birth of a great love story. They were inseparable and shared a bond that grew deeper after my mother passed away.
Zsoka’s memory was phenomenal. Even though our visits were set in annual increments, she would remember me, my sister, and her daughters. She seemed to understand who belonged to the family. When my parents drove to Alberta for a visit, she also seemed to understand which
dog or cat belonged to each of our houses. She would not only leave them alone, but protect them as well.
Dad’s car was also part of the pack and Zsoka deemed the vehicle worthy of her protection. Many gas jockeys were met with furious barking when they tried to wash the windshield. When she was left alone in the car, she claimed the driver’s seat until dad returned. Only the Dairy Queen parking
lot was spared her defiance. Her intuition must have told her she was about to get a treat.
After my mother’s passing, my dad moved to Canada to live with me. We loaded his belongings into a large U-Haul and began the long journey to Calgary. I drove my dad’s car, and he followed in
the truck. By this time, Zsoka was middle-aged and somewhat fat from the many tidbits and treats she wrangled from my father.
Due to her size, she could not climb into the truck on her own, so she endured the journey with me, in the car. When she was not sleeping, she sat with her head resting on the back seat, staring at the truck behind us. An occasional whimper showed her distress at being separated from my father. She could hardly wait for him to pet her during breaks.
Zsoka loved her new home in Calgary. She and my dad walked through the city’s many parks and went for joyrides in the countryside. Gradually, she began to show her age and developed rheumatism and had difficulty walking. Then came time for a very difficult decision.
Zsoka’s veterinarian suggested that her time was up, but my dad struggled with the decision to end her life. For weeks, he knew the logical choice was yes, but his heart said no. Fortunately, he did make the logical decision, and just in time.
Only three months after Zsoka’s death, my dad passed away from a heart attack.
Will Rogers was a very smart man, and he is credited with saying, “If there are no dogs in Heaven, then when I die, I want to go where they went.” Many dog owners would certainly agree to do the same, and I am sure Zsoka and dad are reunited.
