A Memoir Dusty died September 14, 2010
Grandma sounded like my Mom, but their smells were different. She loved
to give me treats, made me rice and meat, and took me with her in the van.
Sometimes she would forget and leave food in the car. Ice cream and
pizza were my favorites. She sometimes left me alone outside, but
always honked to let me know she was leaving and when she came home. I do not like alone.
Grandpa loved to take me to the place that smells like the woods with
all the dead trees. It sometimes smelled bad there, has noisy
machinery, but at least I was not alone. But it was more fun if he
took me to the fields to hunt. He would walk around the edges, and I
would run to the woods and through the fields. One time I even got
lost chasing a deer, a big metal vehicle barely missed me, and I just
kept on running. I was scared then too.
I hate alone. I hate no people around. They do not have to pet, play,
or talk to me, just be in the same house. Better if they are in the
same room.
I do not like alone. Not outside, not inside – it makes me scared.
And I pee or bark, both things that are not good to do inside. It is
OK outside to pee, but the barking makes me have to drink water.
I am a Colorado dog – born and bred there.
I love it, but Mom said we must move to Chicago as she had a new job. I have never been in an
apartment, never seen so many cars, heard so much noise, or smelled so
many dogs. I think there are millions of dogs there, and 500 of them
live in my neighborhood building. I could hear the Doberman and Chow
through the walls, and even though I thought they could not get me, I
was scared. I also heard the door open and close when someone went
outside, and since my job is to warn my mom, I barked.
Then I would go to the Lake Shore Park and
run, geese, raccoons, squirrels, and ducks were everywhere. But so
were all the other dogs. I could hear the water sometimes, and sometimes it
all was so windy my ears would just blow backwards off Lake Michigan.