I have always been an animal person. Moreover, I have always been a dog person.
At one point in my early life, we had a dog named Scooter. Scooter was a very young dog, and either a purebred Old English Sheepdog, or an OES mix that very much looked like a purebred. I don't remember when he came into my life, but I distinctly remember the day he left. As any typical day, my sisters and I came home from school, but Scooter was no where to be found. We searched high and low, under the porch, and in places it was impossible or such a large dog to hide (like the couch cushions). We were sure he'd gotten out of the yard or something and went to find mom. She told us that he was somewhere else, with a new family.
Turns out, mom couldn't handle the whole puppy thing in addition to everything else going on, and re-homed him without telling us. I was upset, but our lives changed in dramatic ways soon after and I forgot him for the most part.
When I was seven, mom left our dad and we moved back to the old homestead where she grew up. After some time, I began pressuring mom to get a puppy. My reasons were logical for a ten year old: we had the room (2 acres +) and we had the time (she did daycare out of our home, so someone was home constantly), and I definitely had the passion...
...but Gramma said no. Gramma, who is the property owner, Gramma, who has final say in what does and does not happen around here. Gramma said no. Not once, not twice, not even three times. She said no every time we asked, begged, pleaded, or cried over the want of a dog. Gramma, who is not heartless or souless as I've made her seem, didn't see that we could take care of one, and was quite upset still over losing her beloved Dachshund. (Hit by a car on our busy road.)
And so time went on, cat-filled but dog-less.
Part One / Part Two
Today I'm grateful for the long sunny days ahead.
Until next time,
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