Sophie

     Her life started in circumstances unknown to me. All I know of her first two years is that she was neglected. Her humans sent her out to forage for her meals. They left the back door to their house open at all times, so that they didn’t have to be bothered walking her or taking her out to eliminate.

     That family was pure trash. Why they wanted a dog in the house is unclear, considering how little attention they paid her. They had to haul stakes and leave town quickly when their 14-year-old daughter got knocked up by a member of MS-13. They drove off in a big hurry and left Sophie behind them. I’m told she chased their rented truck for a couple of miles before giving up on them.

     A friend of ours who’s involved in rescue work found her and took her in. She told us almost offhandedly about the two-year-old German Shepherd / Husky mix she’d just taken in. I immediately told her we’d take Sophie. My wife Beth gave me one of those looks; I shut her down on the spot.

     Sophie was ours a few days later. She had a little trouble settling in: learning not to pee or poop in the house; adjusting to Rufus, our Newf; learning not to eat the cats’ food; and so forth. But from the start she was as affectionate as if she’d been with us from birth.

     That was the late summer of 2012. Sophie hung on through a lot of changes. We lost Rufus in 2017, to lymphoma. We lost Precious, our Pit Bull Terrier, in 2023, to an untreatable abdominal tumor. We lost several cats. Sophie took that hard. She loved the cats.

     Sophie was my dog. Beth has always been more partial to Newfs. That didn’t bother Sophie. It certainly didn’t bother me.

     Dogs do get old. They do deteriorate and die. But their humans are never really ready for it. I certainly wasn’t.

     For nearly fourteen years I had her companionship and affection. She’d sit in my home office while I worked. I’d take her on walks around the neighborhood, or out in the back yard, where she’d romp around with our other dogs, and sometimes with a neighbor dog. I had her on the sofa beside me, her head in my lap, while I read or watched some sporting event on the idiot box.

     These past few months, Sophie’s joints and nervous system started to degenerate. She lost control of her back legs and her sphincters. As of early in March, she could no longer deal with stairs, even the two steps from our deck to the back yard grass. I told myself she could still get over it. Even if it was against the odds, she still might recover. I knew better, of course.

     Sophie died today, at 12:35 PM New York time. Her breathing stopped and didn’t resume, and that was that. We can’t be sure of her exact age, but our best guess is that she was sixteen years old.

     I’m 74 years old. My age and heritage suggest that I shouldn’t adopt another dog. I don’t suppose I will. I’ll be in mourning for Sophie for quite a while.