Heatherwoods His Name Is Mudd by Monica MacDonald / M

Where do I begin with such a great dog. He came to me shipped from Ohio, and bounded out of the crate with more happiness and life then I’d ever seen in a puppy. He immediately went to our Cajun and fearlessly began the first of many puppy attacks. A month later, Polly came to us, and the two of them became inseparable.

He was always his own man…with his own ideas of what he should be doing. He was accident prone, with in the first few months of having him, he flung himself into something and chipped a baby canine, which refused to come out and was black and had to be yanked. It was the first of many injuries, as he didn’t know the benefits of not flinging yourself body and soul into life. I suppose he was a fire that burned too bright. As many know, he had a major accident a year ago when those 85 pounds flew into the tail gate of a pick up while I was packing for a show. We almost lost him then, but he was such a fighter. He lived with his body filling with urine over a six hour drive to the emergency room.

Thanks to much help, a surgery was preformed which saved his life. He healed, had become strong again, and we were anticipating a great show year. Two weeks ago we learned that one of his kidneys were blocked up and had become the size of his head. He did have a good one though, so we knew we just needed to get the money together and we’d get him to surgery. We would have had it in a couple more weeks, and in the meantime, the vet advised he be kept out of rough play and he should be ok.

That boy, so full of life, sadly spent his last couple of weeks rather miserable. He could not rough house as he wished, and remained confined for the most part to his run. Sure, he got out for exercise with me, but you just can’t be that full of life and not want to run. Especially when, a few months before, he’d went on that entirely too fun romp where he ran as far as his legs would carry him – until we found him with his bestest pal Polly. The sneaky little bugger would wait until it looked like I wasn’t paying attention, and then try and take off. Yesterday, I didn’t catch him in time.

The wild man was off just before sunset, and while we searched, there just wasn’t anyway to find him. It was dark, and I would think I’d hear his bark, but I didn’t see him, even though I frantically ran through the fields to his voice. Eventually I went to bed, and I woke at 3 am, knowing something was wrong. I went out and called, drove some more, but didn’t find him. I had a call into the sheriff’s office, as the animal control closed just before he was gone. That morning I got a call. Someone saw a dog, a chocolate lab, who was hit just south of me. I quickly jumped in the car, and recognized his laying body far before I reached him. He looked like he was sleeping – no broken bones I could see or feel, and just a tiny bit of blood. I imagine he would only just barely have to be clipped to have been fatal. I carried my boy home.

Mudd, we will remember you as the incorrigible counter surfer who didn’t even have the decency to wait until I wasn’t looking to steal an entire block of cheese and have it half consumed before I could pry it from your mouth. We will remember you for your full body hugs you gave us, far after you were lap dog size. We will remember you as the dog who would let the Dane puppy harass you to no end, and you would not stick up for yourself. We will keep your twizzle in a Ziploc with your scrapbook page, that we can keep part of you with us. And I will remember your last hug you gave me, a paw on each side of my body, as I lay in bed with a migraine two days ago. Mudd, baby, keep Grandma company, while we wait until we meet again. Buck, my horse, doesn’t like dogs much, but since you no longer can get hurt, feel free to give him hell. This place will not be the same without you for you were the life of the party. I love you so much.


I can't wait to see you again,
Heatherwoods His Name Is Mudd
Monica MacDonald