Goodbye old friend

She was just a bundle of yellowish-white fur when Pop and I picked her up Christmas Eve 1994.

A tiny package of pee, poop and slobber with paws the size of a Mack truck.

Shawnie was an Alaskan samoan-German shepard mix with a bark that made the electric man crap his pants and a tail that would whisk away your beer and anything else in its path with one easy swoosh.

Pop told me he was buying a dog from a buddy at the Idyllwild Garage who's dog just had a litter, and Pop asked if I wanted to join him when he picked her up. What the hell, I said, I was always a sucker for puppies. I was home from Vegas for the Christmas holiday, so on the morning of Christmas Eve we stopped off to pick up the newest Melissa. We papered the downstairs bedroom with old L.A. Times - what better use, right? - and let her have free reign. She sat there, shaking with fear in a room that must have looked as big as the Texas plains to her small body. But my God, those paws, she wasn't going to stay palm size for long. If Pop had it his way, her name would have been Lady or Girl - why not call her dog, dad? that was our response - until one of us blurted out Shawnie, and that stuck.

Thirteen years of loyalty, friendship and love should cost more than fifty bucks. That's what Pop plopped down for a pooch who was more human than dog, more sister than pet. She was a not a pet, but a family member. And after that first year, you couldn't put price tag on Shawnie, my parents would fight to the death than give her away. I wouldn't blame them, either.

I knew this day would come. Pop had been warning me and my sister for the past few months. And honestly, after sitting for Shawnie during June this year, I was happily surprised she made it until the end of September. You see, being a big dog with shepard genes her hips slowly began deteriorating. I noticed it a couple of years ago, which means the parents knew about it much sooner than that. But the old girl kept plugging along, chasing her ball in the back yard, trotting along the open field near my parent's house, and barking peevishly when we were watching a movie and not paying attention to her. Shame on us is what it always sounded like and we dutifully listened to her whines. During the last few visits I reminded myself of what a spirited friend Shawnie had been, and what I was seeing was a sick friend fighting off the aches and pains so she could have some more fun. There was nothing any of us could do but love her, and I think she understood that. She appeared happy for the visits, enjoying the extra loving attention and reciprocated it with head butts and slobbery kisses.

Both my sister and I always felt Shawnie was my parents' favorite kid. When it came to her needs or wants, money was no object. They bought her a cushy warm doggie bed with faux sheep wool that contained a five foot-by-five-foot pillow hidden inside. It was more comfy than the twin bed taco (sleep in the middle of the mattress and the ends fold up) they gave me for my apartment, or the spring-in-the-ass couch they handed down my sister's way. When we were kids, we'd crank the heat up one extra notch and Pop would complain that we were spiking his electric bill, but Shawnie couldn't sleep on the cold floor, oh no, she needed that wool doggie bed so she could brave those 60-degree nights in Hemet ... California.

They took her everywhere, too. Wife and I, combined, haven't been to as many states as Shawnie. Heck, she even attended more family reunions than either me or my sister. She's been to the northern most parts of the country - Washington and Maine - and spent time the Florida Keys. She's been to Toronto, Canada, and Galvaston, Texas, the closest she could get to Mexico. Damn those pesky Mexican laws regarding pets.

Be itin the back yard in Idyllwild, the walled-in confines of Hemet or a campsite in Yellowstone, Shawnie knew how much turf was her's and would let you know whether you belonged there. For example, a buffalo went on an afternoon stroll through the campsites in Yellowstone one year. The family had met with relatives from the Cleveland area for a little reunion, and true to form my parents brought Shawnie along (I was unable to attend due to vacation time constraints, so this tale was relayed to me after the event). Well, the buffalo stepped foot in the parents' campsite and Shawnie was having none of that. Tied to a tree by Yellowstone rules (by the by, great rule Yellowstone, why not slather every pet with honey too so more bears and buffalos come looking for a 'dog on a rope' snack in the afternoon), she let the 900-pound glorified moose know it was not welcome in her yard. The buffalo snorted its displeasure and pawed at the ground, ready to spin Shawnie on its head like a barking soccer ball. Finally, realizing this 100-pound, yellow-furred pint-sized beast (when compared to the snorting land mass of a buffalo) wasn't going to back down, the buffalo continued on its way through the campsite, ignoring the barking Shawnie and coolers full of lunch meats and beer.

Those who pretend to know what dogs think and mean in bark inflection and tail wags say the animals have short memories. A dog, according to these wonks, don't remember things that happen from hour to hour, let alone day to day. They're full of dog-poop. Whenever I came home from college that dog bulled her way up the stairs and through the front door like she was Dino and I was Fred. She'd head butt my hip, lean against my legs until I backed up into a wall for support and then slobbered kisses on my hands until my own paws were coated in dog saliva. She may not have missed me when I left to head back to school, but she sure knew who I was when I walked through the door.

It won't be the same when Wife and I stop at the parents' pad. Heck, Shawnie had just started warming up to Wife - it only took seven years, I think Shawnie was jealous - she finally warmed to her and started licking her hands and nuzzling her thigh when Wife would sit on the floor. There won't be that familiar face peering at us through the sliding glass door, tail wagging, mouth open, panting, looking as though she's smiling at our appearance. I won't get that head plop when sitting on the porch or the heaving breathing wake up call at 6 a.m., and I'll miss it. Shawnie was a companion to my mom when Pop was on the road, and a friend who always seemed excited to see me at her house or mine.

But those will be the memories that will keep her alive in my mind, her high fives for treats and morning walks to the vacant lot where she'd run and sniff forever if we let her. Maybe now, that's just what she'd doing, running on a pair of good hips and barking at buffalos.