When we met him, he was an eight-week-old ball of white
fluff. His dad was a West Highland White Terrier who’d won ribbons for his
looks, and his mum was a white Schnauzer with behavior issues. Heather named him
McDuff, after the dog in her favorite Rosemary Wells/Susan Jeffers books. Somehow,
none of us called him anything but Duffy. He was still a puppy when we moved to
England. We walked Yorkshire in all kinds of weather – mostly in the rain. Duffy
was never fond of getting rained on, but he loved being toweled dry when we got
home. He enjoyed playing fetch, but never quite got the hang of returning the
ball. His favorite spot was wherever I was; if I held still long enough, he’d
fall asleep lying across my feet. After more than 16 years, the “heartbeat at
my feet” is silent now, and I miss him more than words can say.
No comments:
Post a Comment