It was a steaming hot South Carolina day in late July when I went to pick up the four year old Cocker Spaniel arriving via the “doggie underground” from Texas. I’d agreed to take a dog from a rescuer friend of mine there. She ran a hospice for elderly cockers and this little guy with his boundless energy really didn’t belong there.
He had been rescued from a pound in Dallas with his mother. Both dogs were covered in matts, feces and had been starved near to death. They were the product of a backyard breeder who had lost interest and decided that there was no money in Cocker Spaniels. Maggie said it was the worst abuse/neglect case she’d ever seen. Hi-Lite’s mother, who he’d spent his entire life with, died at the vet’s,
leaving him alone and confused.
I bought a bag of ice to keep in the floorboards of my truck on the way home. The a/c in my vehicle was on the fritz. He was an odd looking little thing. The fur on his snout was sticking out at right angles on his sweetly scrunchy face. His legs were short and a bit disproportionate to the rest of him. He also had a full plumed tail. He was still underweight, but had benefited greatly from Maggie’s home cooking and
care by the time he came to me.
I could tell he was a bit distrustful of this entire situation. I stopped off at a Kentucky Fried Chicken place and got us a snack. This marked the beginning of our love affair. He decided I wasn’t half bad and wrestled me for the gristle end of a chicken leg
as we hurtled down I-95.
He and my other cocker, Shadow, became fast friends and conspirators in very short order. I had a large antique German doll that sat on a high chair in my living room. Hi-Lite’s first order of business was to bark at her ferociously. Shadow joined in, as if to say… “I thought she was weird, too…I just hadn’t said anything.”
Hi-Lite was the architect of many astounding feats of badness. At first he cowered when such feats came to my attention, but when he discovered that the worst that could happen was my cry of dismay…”OHHHH…Hi-Lite!”, all shame evaporated and he would look at me
with a wide cocker grin on his face.
He had a delightful sense of humor. He seemed to shift the bond that he shared with his mother to me. He had many sweet puppy-like games he liked to play. His favorite was the “bite-me” game. I’d kiss his nose and he’d play bite me on the nose…sometimes curling his lip a bit. I’d say…”Are you going to BITE ME! Oh…please don’t bite me!”, I’d plead. He’d then buss me in the face with his nose and
offer his tummy to be rubbed.
He loved to sleep on top of me when I lay on the couch and was cat-like in his desire for closeness. It was not unusual for him to drape himself around my shoulders as I sat watching television. His spot on the bed was right next to me at night, where he’d nestle his back up next to mine.
Hi-Lite’s scrunchy face would “stick” in a comical expression when he woke up from a nap. Sometimes the tip of his tongue would stick out. He was my jester, my funny precious boy.
We moved to a remote area of Tennessee a year ago. Since Hi-Lite arrived, we had added another cocker and a Labrador to our pack. We were all blissfully happy in our mountain aerie. Hi-Lite and Shadow, my active boys would run in the morning up to the upper farm road to chase away the spirits of the night. There were small woodland creatures to be chased, chickens to be harassed and goats to be cautiously regarded.
Hi-Lite would go down to the frog pond and swim late at night. Coming in with muddy paws and a sheepish grin. “OH…Hi-Lite!” I’d cry in dismay, thinking of yet another late night dog bath.
He began to fail in late summer when the air was alive with discarded spider webs and thistle down. He was so young, only six and a half years. Hemangiosarcoma, a vicious cancer, spread from his spleen into the rest of his sweet body. I sent him on to the bridge on
October 29, 2003.
My heart is broken with his loss. My other boys are equally heartbroken. I laid his still body on a mountain overlooking the frog pond he so loved and from there he can always see me coming home to him.
When next we meet, we plan to march right up
to God’s front door and howl in unison,
“WHY?”.
My Very Sweet Boy, My Broken Heart,
| Hi-Lite |
| Rosie Griffeth |