Seasons come and seasons go. Years pass by in what seems like no time at all. We are born, we live, and ultimately we die. I see the circle of life in my dog, watching it like an old favorite on television, tuned into every moment for the past 13 years.
The morning we drove into rural Mississippi to meet her for the first time, I fell in love with that tiny dark face and big brown eyes. No bigger than my outstretched palm, we grew together as she found her legs on the tile floors of our kitchen.
The first few nights she longed for her mama. The whimpers kept us awake as we wondered if we had made the right decision bringing a tiny new life into our home. Those doubts quickly diminished after she found her sleeping nook nestled into my pillow. Nothing has changed. She still sleeps in that exact spot, whether I do or not. Her name became Sophia Maria Conchita Esplanita, later shortened to Sophia for fear she would be teased for a grandiose name at puppy kindergarten.
She went everywhere with me: the Ritz-Carlton hotel in New Orleans, my salon, riding shotgun with the heated seat adjusted to her setting, Symphony at Sunset, and she has even had sand between her toes a time or two. All the seasons of my life have been better because of her. Never mind the bouts of contrariness when she hid under the bed, making me late for work — or mischievous acts refinishing the legs of my antique sofas while teething. I am my best with my baby girl.
Since then we have adopted three others, and she has remained regally above it all from the day she became a big sister. Shih-Tzus were bred to be lap dogs to Chinese royalty, don’t you know.
Our second Christmas together, she came down with a hacking cough that scared the dickens out of us. After many tests, talk of sinus surgery, and even acupuncture, we discovered she was allergic to the real Christmas tree in the foyer. We threw out the tree and kept the dog.
In 2012, she mysteriously became crippled with a painful back condition that resulted in two distraught parents at the animal emergency hospital faced with the possibility of euthanizing our suffering baby. Knowing she had survived so much — the Christmas tree incident, the time she ate rocks, gall bladder surgery — we knew she was a fighter. And so she got better with some TLC and her rock star veterinarian, Dr. Filgo.
Nowadays, she is our elderly grande dame and we carry her up and down the stairs to bed. She takes half a pain pill in the morning and half at night. Sometimes we wonder what’s happening in there as she stares into space, and now and then we nudge her to make sure she hasn’t gone to Heaven. Seasons change, but a dog is a best friend forever.
The Dispatch Editorial Board is made up of publisher Peter Imes, columnist Slim Smith, managing editor Zack Plair and senior newsroom staff.
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