The Crackpot: MaryLee's Misty Shadow

Warning: If you're not a dog person and you can't stomach much "schmaltz," don't bother reading any further.

Only those of us completely captivated by a dog can begin to understand the eccentricities that evolve when it comes to caring for man's (or in this case woman's) most faithful friend.

Dogs come and dogs go over a person's lifetime, but once in a while, one particular dog comes along who manages to steal your heart.

When a wiggly, six-week-old Black Labrador puppy entered my life about 14 years ago, little did I know then how fully I would come to depend on my "Misty Shadow."

I have to tell you, I'm one of those people who mothers everything from bum lambs to orphaned possums. (Yes, even baby possums are ugly.) So when this tiny, whiny, too-young-to-be-away-from-her-mother, black ball of fur came to me, naturally, I had to fill in.

Misty cried that first night away from her Mama, just as any normal puppy would, so I put a hot water bottle under a fuzzy blanket to make a cozy spot for her out in the back room.

No good. She kept crying. I wound up an old alarm clock and tucked it under the hot water bottle (a trick which had calmed countless puppies in the past), but it didn't comfort Misty.

Nothing I tried eased her whining until I finally curled up on the floor beside her. Then Misty snuggled in, heaved a great sigh, and contentedly slept. Whenever I'd stir to try and get up, she'd waken and start crying all over again.

You guessed it; I spent the next several nights sleeping on the floor with Misty.

From that portentous beginning, Misty trained me well, and I came to depend on the company of my steadfast friend as much as she depended on mine.

She loves to "go" with me, no matter where I happen to be heading. When she hears the jingle of those keys, Misty makes a beeline for the truck. (Except when we go to the vet's office. Somehow she always knows that destination before I have the tailgate down.)

When she became arthritic and ended up with one bum leg, we had to adapt our loading procedure so she could still get in and out of the truck. I made a step out of an old crate, and Misty would make the jump up to the truck bed in stages.

Those times when I couldn't take her along with me, she'd invariably crawl into her doghouse and pout. I'd give her a dog-biscuit treat when I left, but she'd never touch that goody until I came back home to her. Only then, when I finally returned, would she eat her biscuit -- whether it be 10 hours or 10 days later.

Like all Labrador Retrievers, Misty loves water. The first time she saw a pond, it puzzled her, but when I waded in to swim and called her to follow me, it didn't take her long to figure out what to do. From then on, any puddle she found became her swimming pool.

The place I'm living in now has a perfect little "swimmin' hole" back in the Horsetail Run, where Misty loves to take a dip. But since she's nearly blind now, I have to lead her there. She won't wander to the woods on her own any more unless she can hear my voice to guide her way.

Misty has moved four times with me; she's endured countless other pesky dogs and cats (and kids) in the menageries I've had over the years, and she's given birth to 16 puppies of her own. (Motherhood did not agree with her!)

In time, all the other dogs and cats and lambs, and kids, have grown up or gone on, but Misty and I remain. Together we've lived through 14 of the most difficult years of upheaval I've ever experienced. Throughout all the tumultuous changes, I've been the only constant in Misty's life, so perhaps that explains her unequaled devotion.

But if the truth be known, it's really Misty who's been the only constant for me. I can hardly bear the thought of going on without her.

One deer-hunting season not long past, she disappeared for three days, and I figured that she must have been shot. But I finally found her, cowering under a shed where she'd crawled to get away from the gunfire (Misty's terrified of guns). In her panic to escape the noise, she got herself stuck under there.

Four years ago, she disappeared for a whole week. That time I figured she'd crawled off into the woods to die. But wonder of wonders, she did come back, walking three-legged and ravenously hungry. Three years ago, I wouldn't have bet you two cents that she'd live through the coming winter, yet, here she is, sitting at my feet, still offering me her unconditional love.

Last weekend we awoke to find another one of her legs gone bad, leaving just two good ones -- and both of those on the same side. Instead of walking with a limp, she had a decided list to the starboard. Misty could hardly get up, let alone walk; yet still, she tried to jump into the truck as I got ready to leave for work.

Her body may be wasting away, but her spirit still soars like that of a bouncy pup.

Today, Misty moved as well as she has in months -- another amazing recovery. (I'll bet I've buried that dog ten times in my mind over the last year, and still, she keeps surprising me.)

Oh, I know Misty's light grows dim, and the time soon approaches when I'll have to say goodbye to my faithful friend for good. But perhaps, MaryLee's Misty Shadow won't really be that far away, after all.

Shadows never do get very far, now, do they?

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