Goodbye, Ms. Doopers
When I was ten years old, I went to the flea market with my stepdad, Todd, and my pregnant mom. It was a cold, foggy morning, and in the parking lot, a family was giving away an adorable liter of brown puppies. My mom had been bitten by a dog as a child, and was afraid of them, but Todd and I begged her to bring home a little brown puppy, appealing to her emotional state and she acquiesced. We teased her when she burst into tears because we had to leave the other pup behind. Our puppy was so small, we zipped her up in our sweatshirts as we wandered around the flea market, before being kicked out. They told us she was a Border Collie Rottweiler mix but we always said she was a purebred Brown Dog. We named her Daisy.
Daisy became Daisy DuClaw become Daisy Doopers and before long, we just called her Doopers. We lived in the redwoods of Camp Meeker, where we spent our winters snuggled up in front of the wood burning stove, springtime roaming the woods, and summers swimming in the Russian River. Doopers loved the ball and we would toss it down hillsides and through the woods, where she would go crashing down at breakneck speed and return, dirty, panting, and victorious. When she didn't have a ball, she would find a rock and took to dropping rocks in my grandma's pool in an attempt to get someone to throw it for her. When visitors came to the house she would scramble to find a suitable rock and come tromping to the gate to present it to her guests. My mom was no longer afraid of dogs. We were so lucky with Doops. We never took training classes, but played games with her at home, and she learned voraciously, responding eagerly when Todd would tell her, "We're gonna do some training!" When my mom was pregnant, she taught Doopers to place the ball in her hand so she didn't have to bend over to throw it. She knew the word "chew toy" and would hold still with a toy balanced on her snout until we released her to snatch it and flap it around wildly. When my brother was a baby, she learned that the word "highchair!" was her cue to come into the kitchen and clean up the food that had been flung around during mealtimes. She was patient with kids and groomed our cat affectionately, although sometimes a little too enthusiastically.
My family moved to the suburbs when she was an old lady dog — by that time we had respectfully begun to call her Ms. Doopers — and the first thing she did in her new yard was to overturn a potted plant to make a dirt nest for herself. She was fiery and full of life, even as her vision began to dim and her hearing went. When I brought home my own dogs, she was a stiff old lady with worn down teeth, but she would still frolic with them for short stints and remind them that teeth or no teeth, she was the boss of the house, and there was no rough housing allowed inside!
And now, after 16 long years, full of life and love and adventure, Doopers is tired. Yesterday, her breathing began to slow, and she stayed in bed, choosing to skip breakfast and her slow morning sniff around the yard. Her legs are skinny and arthritic, her once dark muzzle is cream colored and her black nose is worn, and it's time to say goodbye. For Doopers, I promise to hold my dogs a little closer, reminded that our time with them is so short, and so precious. I promise to tell them I love them everyday, with snuggles, and patience, and play. I promise to run with abandon, to be wild and enjoy the beautiful outdoors, to be in the moment, and to love fiercely.
"We've had the best, and we've had the worst, we've got the Doopiest Doops in the Dooperverse."
Goodbye, Doopers. We love you.
