Annie stubbornly plopping down in the grass on another unsuccessful “walk”

Two stray dogs were on the loose in my neighborhood. They were medium-sized, a brown male and a black female with white painted feet. This was twelve years ago, in the last winter chill right before spring. You'd see them over the next three months, eating out of dumpsters, darting in front of traffic, or sunning themselves in the greenbelt. They looked a little skinny but appeared to be enjoying their freedom.

The stray problem

Strays were not unusual in that part of South Dallas. It's a big problem, ask anyone who lives there. I was one of a handful of neighbors who banded together to help out when we could, catching the dogs, calling the numbers on nametags, scanning for microchips, even fostering for short periods when the shelters were full. A few of us tried to catch those two dogs, but they didn’t want to be caught. One morning while walking my own dog, I got right up on them. The male seemed friendly but the female had wild eyes and a tense posture. I gave her plenty of space. With a handful of treats, I coaxed them home. I was guiding them into the backyard, when the female got spooked for whatever reason. Bam! Off she goes, lickety split. The male took off after her. Right then, you knew who led the pack.

One of our group did manage to trap them, though. Neither dog was chipped; neither had a collar. We posted their photos on social channels, but nobody stepped forward. A day later, I loaded them up and drove them to a shelter. They turned me away at the door because they were overcrowded, so I returned home with the dogs feeling defeated. The neighbor who caught them and I hatched a makeshift plan: we would shuffle the dogs back and forth between our houses for a few days until we could figure out what to do with them. He kept them the first few nights, and then it was my turn. The dogs came over, and I did my best not to bond with them. I mean, I fed them and acknowledged them, but with minimal eye contact and hardly any affection. I had a dog of my own and didn't need another one.

Stealing my heart

I'm reading The Witches of Eastwick on the couch on a Saturday afternoon, when the black dog sits next to me on the floor. She'd loosened up a lot over the course of a few days and is eager for attention, just boring holes at me with her butterscotch eyes. I ignore her. Like I said, a new dog was not in the cards. Plop. She puts her paw on my lap. I double down and keep on reading. Plop. Here comes the other paw. Now I'm curious, but I keep pretending to read. Know what she does next? This dog pulls herself up onto my lap, nudging the book away with her nose until she has my full attention. I drop the book and she falls against my chest with a big fat sigh, all that tension in her body completely melted away. Like, "Ahhhh." I hold her like that for about thirty minutes until she's snoring in my ear. My husband walks into the room and sees what's up. "Looks like we're going to need another food dish," he says.

That's how Annie came into my life.

There's no way to describe how much joy she brought to our world. The vet said she was around two years old when we found her, and she had a special blend of energy and smarts that stole my heart. When I'd let her out to pottie before work, she'd sprint circles around the yard like a black blurry bullet, her leg spinning underneath her like a tornado. Sometimes I'd run with her and she'd chase me around the yard, nipping at my pant legs me until I was out of breath. One time, I dropped like a rock in front of her to see what she would do, kind of pulled myself into a ball. Kid you not, this dog leapfrogs over me like a rocket, her paws launching off my back, landing ten feet in front of me before whirling around for more. Another time she pounced off the deck and I caught her in my arms, the ultimate display of trust. I can't tell you how many times she got my clothes dirty before work, both of us tromping through the dewy grass, me laughing like a schoolkid even though I'd knew I'd have to iron another set of clothes.

Sweet but stubborn

That's not to say Annie was an angel. She was wild, almost feral when we took her in. After her life on the streets, she didn't like being told what to do. Getting her to walk on a leash was a special form of torture for both of us. She'd buck and flip and twist until you just wanted to cry. It took me weeks to get her to walk on a leash in the yard, and months to get her around the block. Even so, she'd sometimes go completely mental, pulling and tugging on her choke collar until you'd think she'd pass out.

But once she learned to walk on a leash, she absolutely loved it. She got two walks a day, often for an hour or more at a time. As long as you were going in the direction she wanted to go, everything was cool. The minute it was time to return home, though, Annie would pump the breaks. Sometimes she'd even fall down in the grass like a bratty little child. Instead of getting angry, I'd join her. We'd sit down in neighbor's yards or in streetside ditches, and I'd watch the clouds go by while she enjoyed the fresh air. I know she was spoiled, but I have no regrets. To me, it was a tradeoff—a minor annoyance for letting her be the wild girl she wanted to be. Seeing the two of us laying in the grass, drivers would often stop. "Are you okay?" "Is she okay?" I'd wave them off with a smile. "She's been doing this since she was two," I'd say.

Oh, the adventures we had with that sweet girl! Annie was my ride or die, my partner in crime, my furry, four-legged bestie. She traveled with us on road trips, was our backseat copilot on numerous vacations. I've got pictures of her at beaches, at cabins, on the balconies of fancy high-rise hotels. She was never far from my side, hopping in the car to go for donuts, for milk, or for rainy day sniff-rides around the block. She was there when my other dog died, and she moved in quickly to fill the gaping hole he left behind. At bedtime, she edged her way in between my husband and I, keeping us warm in the winter, or barking at strange sounds we were too zonked out to hear. She was a food snob, too. When she got bored with her kibble, she'd simply stop eating it. We were constantly upgrading to the next tier of dog food, the flashier brands in the gold foil bags. I don’t want to talk about how much we spent on food for our little diva. This, from a dog who once ate out of dumpsters.

A legacy of love

I noticed the bump on her nose right before the Nine Inch Nails concert in March. It was just after work, and I was getting some cuddles in before we left for the evening. I almost didn't enjoy the show that night, because my brain kept returning to that bump, to the dangerous implications surrounding it. When our vet suspected an abscess tooth, we breathed a sigh of relief because that was something we could fix. But it turned out to be something far worse. The tumor in her nose was malignant and inoperable, meaning we only had a few weeks to spend with our girl. It hit us like a truck. Until that moment, she’d been the healthiest pet we’d ever had

That's how Annie left us.

Her passing has been devastating, so I’m trying to focus on the memories. I'll miss our tromps through the neighborhood, and how she helped me reach my daily step goals, even if she had no idea what that meant. I'll miss how proud I felt when she learned how to walk unleashed at my side after so many years of resistance. I'll miss the clickety-clack of her nails on the floor as she joined me in my office for work in the mornings. The thump of her wagging tail on the wall when we brought home to-go boxes from restaurants. The smell of her damp fur after her baths. How she watched me in the kitchen from her chair, her head cocked on the armrest, hoping for a bite of whatever I was making. (Spoiler alert: she always got a taster.) And I'll miss cuddling next to her on lazy weekends, her spine curled against my belly, my arm draped over her hip, her soft snores in my ears, relaxing me to sleep with the steady kick of her heartbeat, the gentle rising and falling of her chest. This once wild girl, the one who never knew she needed a family, finally tamed and happy at last.