Yesterday my husband came home to find that our dog, Millie, had died. It was unexpected. She had spent much of the day barking at the farm workers tearing up the peanut field behind our house.
She was a healthy, happy, sweet, seven-year-old dog. She was a good dog and we will miss her.
I got Millie when I was still in college, living alone in a town house my last semester of school. I was nervous to be alone and my fiance, now husband, suggested I get a dog.
I immediately wanted her when I saw her. She was black as night and fuzzy and sweet as she can be.
Millie stood guard over the town house while I was in class. She slept at the foot of my bed, ready to pounce. She stole pizze from the dining room table (true story!).
When Jason and I got married and moved to Atlanta, Millie patiently endured living on the thirf floor of a walk up.
When we bough out first house she was happy to play in the back yard, enjoying the suburbs.
But her real personality came out when we moved to the country. Her huntress came out. She even caught, killed and ate a rabid skunk and had to be quarantined for six months (true story!).
Last summer I was in a wreck that injured my right leg. Sometimes I walk with a slight limp. In February Millie got kicked by a cow and injured her front right leg. She walked with a slight limp after that. Every day she accompanied my down the driveway, where we both limped to the mail box.
She will always be the sweet baby puppy who met me at the car every day. She will always be the good girl who howled at the dangers of creatures like raccoons. And she will always be the dog that made our sweet baby boy giggle at the sight of her.