OkcPets Magazine January 2022

20 OKC Pets • January/February 2022 older and weaker, so we made a warm bed for him near the front door behind a rock wall. This protected him from the extreme weather, and we could keep a closer eye on him. The storm was gaining in strength, so I bundled up in layers and headed out to feed the dogs and horses. As I walked out the front door, I kicked over Spot’s water, noticing he was not there to greet me. After carrying warm water in a bucket to give fresh, nonfrozen water to each of the animals, I began my search for Spot. “Maybe he had wandered off to die alone,” I thought. He was 16, beyond the “golden years” for a large dog, the vet had said to me on his last visit. I checked the dog pens, the barns, any place Spot might go for protection and warmth. He had dignity and pride and was almost regal in his stature. Although his age was changing his physical structure, his confidence had not wavered. He was feeble, almost bony in appearance, and I could not imagine him walking against this Oklahoma wind or trudging through the knee-deep snow. It was darkening outside, and I began to panic. I asked my mom and sisters to join in the search. We bundled up and searched for what seemed like hours. We found no dog tracks, no hints of where Spot might have headed. We returned to the warm house, and Mom tried to gently convince me that he was probably gone, and heaven had a new angel. I sat by the fire, knowing I could not cry. I could not let my family see my weakness because I had to be strong for them, but the knot in my throat was swelling. Dad had told me to “take care of the dogs.” I could not accept the implication that Spot was gone, and I could not let Spot die alone. He had been a best friend, a confidant, a teacher, a great listener, and a protector. I owed it to him to search. I put on my boots, hat, mittens, and work coat, grabbed the big flashlight, and left without saying a word to anyone. My mind was racing. I remembered the place I would go to laugh, cry, chase lightning bugs, gaze at the clouds, sketch, and learn that my dogs loved me unconditionally. I had learned to write my name in cursive in Spot’s fur. I would take my finger and softly carve my name in his fur. I would always follow the last letter with a firm love pat, my imita- tion of an exclamation point. As a little girl, I believed Spot could read my letters and that it made me “his girl.” Thinking about our times together in the warm summer sun helped keep me warm as I continued my search in the snow. After all the times we had shared at our special place, how could I not consider this location a preferred, comfortable rest- ing area for Spot to spend his last hours? I began to run as fast as I could and headed up the steep hillside. Our patch of heaven was a thick green grass in the springtime, shaded by a large bald cypress. It was now covered by a deep drift of snow. I saw no sign of Spot, so I began to dig furiously through the snowdrift with my mittens, thinking I would find his body underneath. I dug and dug as if I were a dog myself, seeking a bone I had buried weeks ago. I knelt in the snowdrift, my heart sinking. I remembered knocking over Spot’s frozen water bowl, and deep down, I knew. I stood up, afraid to look for fear I might actually see him. I slowly turned to face the painful north wind, snowflakes stinging my face and my eyes adjusting, trying to see the pond. There on the bank of the pond at the base of our hillside was a large white pile — my bird dog, my pet, my Spot. He had tried to get water and slipped on the ice, falling, unable to get his feeble body back to a stance. I took my coat off and softly covered him, rubbing his head ever so lightly, trying to feel his muzzle for a breath. I realized his fur had frozen and stuck to the ice. I delicately freed his fur small sections at a time, while wondering how I was I going to carry this large, life- less dog back to our home. I prayed that God would help me with this insurmount- able task. I picked Spot up, cradled him, and trudged through the snow. The snow helped to cushion us both from each fall. I reached the heavy, wooden front door, which was locked to keep the wind from blowing it open. I kicked and kicked until my sisters finally opened the door. Rushing in, I laid Spot on the big sheepskin rug in front of the warm fire. My Mom and sisters tenderly covered Spot and me with warm blankets and tended to my bleeding fingers. I was unaware that I had torn the ends of my fingers trying to free him from the ice. “Take care of the dogs” Spot recovered. He lived almost another year before he developed cancer. It was my first experience putting a dog, a pet, to sleep with dignity. I lay with him and made sure he knew he was loved and not alone. Spot, my friend, had helped me pull an unknown strength from within myself and find peace amid turmoil. Many years have passed, and the marks I made in the door with my boots remain to remind me of the strength I was given on that snowy day. My dad became weak with a terminal illness, and before his passing, The pond where Spot fell. Far left, Lt. Colonel Kenneth Dugan, USAF.