My Shelter Dog

Trixie was a shelter dog, a mutt on death row when we found her at the pound and rescued her. The coloring and appearance is similar to a doberman pinscher, her body resembling that of a pit bull or bull mastiff, and of medium size, weighing in around 50-60 Ib. She had a few white hairs on her chest and snout. A dog that didn’t bark, she stood out from every other dog that raged around in their cages. Her eyes were brown and sad and her ears and attitude were perky, licking my face, giving me doggy kisses.

When we brought her home that Saturday afternoon, my brother Jimmy and I played with her outside to help her get used to her surroundings. Jimmy looked up at the cloudy sky, thinking to himself that it might rain soon. Trixie saw the opportunity and took it, grabbing Jimmy’s shoe clear off his foot. Him and I chased her for about an hour before we finally got it back.

Trixie, as I was soon to learn, was a rather smart dog. Understanding how to get our attention, she would take things like socks and pencils or anything to get our attention, then when she did, she’d guide us to the door. Once you’ve made it to the door, she’d toss aside whatever she stole and look at you wide-eyed and ears up waiting for you to open the door to her playground. She knew the spelling of certain words like W-A-L-K or B-A-T-H. She could solve simple adding and subtracting problems by barking the amount that was the answer.

Trixie was also very athletic and strange. She’d jump on our trampoline with us and slide down the slide on our swing set. She could catch a frisbee in her mouth like a professional baseball player could catch the ball in their mit. I could never run fast enough for her when I walked her on her leash.

Her natural instinct was to hunt and she had never lost that instinct to the times like numerous other dogs had. Our backyard soon became a graveyard for small animals and lost cats and even birds. Once, my mother found a pile of feathers in the yard but no bird. She also said that for the rest of the day, Trixie just laid in her bed.

It wasn’t until that afternoon I needed to sweep that I saw her true nature, a dark past that I thought had haunted her. Trixie nearby, I picked up the broom and she flinched and cowered with fear. Seeing her like that almost made me want to cry. After all, who would have guessed something like that from such a happy, hyper dog, but it all began to add up. At night, if Trixie slept in my room, she’d move about in her sleep and whimper, as though she were having a nightmare. If an unfamiliar male visitor came over, she’d growl at them and snarl and if they tried to pet her, she’d back away. Now, she flinched at the sight of the broom. To her, the broom was a weapon and one that hurt. I dropped the broom and fell to my feet. Bringing my arms around her, I held her close and stroked her fur.

“You’re a good dog, Trixie.”

In truth, I loved my dog Trixie. She was a wonderful, beautiful dog. I fell hard for this dog and the day she finally left my life, I cried. I cried like I had never cried before. There's something quite heartbreaking about your childhood dog leaving this world and it hurts.