It has taken me a few days to be able to write this. Zippy came to live with me on August 11, 2005 at the ripe old age of 11. I was told that he entered rescue at 7 years old, and was in and out many times before he came to find his final home with me.
He was about 11 pounds of wild man. I'd never had a small dog, and he just took over my heart right away. He declared, from the first moment, that he was a. MY dog, and b. a border collie (even though he actually was a Papillon... but I never argued). Until about a year or so ago he never let me out of his sight. He was the Lord of the Bathmat... and his only preferred toy was one of my socks. He'd grab it up and run off with it - killing it. In fact, his nickname in rescue was "Sock Stealer".
He hated being dressed up, and only grudgingly allowed me to put a coat on him in really cold temperatures. He hated being picked up, hated being carried, and only ever sat in my lap under HIS terms. I was OK with this.
He loved going to dog trials. He loved making friends, and he loved going on walkabouts. I think some of my favorite memories of him are seeing him on walkies with the border collies at Julie's. He'd just dink dink dink along. Once he got going he was just in a groove.
He loved to run and run, and was all about some small dog zoomies. He didn't really play with toys, but he'd play with puppies and he'd play with me. This is my favorite picture of Zippy ever (blurry though it may be):
He helped Ginger to raise four puppies.
One of my favorite Zippy memories was the day he helped me teach Nick how to shed. I was out at Julie's house and I was teaching him how to shed with the big flock. I'd had such troubles with the flock clumping against my legs prior to that day. For whatever reason, that day the sheep were just splitting effortlessly. They were staying far enough away from me, and we were shedding fools. BAM and the dog came in. BAM! BAM! I was preening around muttering "Who's your daddy?"
Then I caught the barest hint of a flash of white in my peripheral vision. I kept looking and looking and couldn't figure out what it was. I'd turn around... nothing. It turned out to be Zippy. He'd snuck into the pasture (did I mention he was small?) and was following closely behind me, so closely that I couldn't see him for the junk in my trunk. When I finally bent over to see him, he said, "Hi Mom! Hi Mom!". He was sure that we were having an excellent adventure, and for sure we were.
Zippy just sort of did his thing, whatever thing it was that he'd decided worked for him that day.
This was a dog who actually loved children. The neighbor's child would come over after work, and knock on my door to ask, "Can Zippy come out and play?" We also had a child in the family with Down's Syndrome. Zippy played and played with that child, and didn't care if he yanked his ears or tail. Not only did he not care, but he took it as a sign of play. This was the same dog that used to bite my ex-husband. Go figure.
When he started letting me out of his sight about a year ago I knew that we were starting the long walk.
I finally just last week made the decision to let him go. His mind, body and spirit were failing him, and I waited until he had one last good weekend. We went to Julie's and had a small walkabout. The day I let him go was one of his better days, comparatively speaking. It was the hardest thing I've ever had to do, but I wanted to let him go while he still had a little dignity left. I wanted him to go with good memories and a little bit of recognition and clarity. I am amazed to find what a giant hole such a small dog can leave.
Safe Journeys, Zippy. I know we'll meet again some day. I know you're digging some serious zoomie action at the bridge little man.
