Art of the Odd

Callie Mae Meads was my mom’s Catahoula. She was a marvelous dog – brave and silly and clever and kind. She got my nephew over his fear of dogs, and when my mother broke her ankle, Callie Mae was there to take care of her. She kept my step-grandmother company in the last years of her life, too.

Big dogs, as anyone who’s ever had one knows, just don’t live as long as smaller animals. But Callie was bucking the trend. She blew out a knee a few years back, and she’d gained quite a bit of weight, with the reduced mobility. When NovySan and I went to Wyoming last Thanksgiving, though, she’d slimmed down, and she came bounding across Mom’s lawn to greet us. I hadn’t seen her move like that in years.

It didn’t last long, though. In the past few weeks, she’d stopped eating, and then she stopped drinking, too. Today, Mom fed her a last few spoonfuls of whipped cream, and my stepfather, Sam, took her to the vet for the final time. The vet said she was in pretty good shape for a 94-year-old lady, but her organs were shutting down, and it was time.

I’ll miss you, Callie Mae.

Of course I’ve managed to log on just as my mother is ready to go to bed. The dog would like to know what I’m doing. She likes when her bed is downstairs.