super-cooper

Today would have been Priss’ 5th birthday. Part of me wonders would have I even remembered her birthday if she were still here today. Perhaps not. We sometimes tend to take things (like having someone you love around for another year, a.k.a., birthdays) for granted. You think the ones close to you will always be there. As if they’re 10 feet tall and bullet-proof. And then they’re gone, and you’re left in shock. You know, the old saying that Poison Cinderella ruined with that crappy-ass song of theirs: “You don’t know what you got ’til it’s gone”. Probably the one thing Poison Cinderella ever sang that’s true. Priss died in February. February 6th. Six months ago. Hard to believe it was that long ago and I still miss her this damn much.

I got Priss in the spring of 2001, from some friends of my parents in Florida. She was about a year and a half old then, and rather shy. When I took her home to Fayetteville, she quickly earned the nickname “Piss” because whenever someone came over that she didn’t know (which was essentially everyone then), she would get scared and pee on the floor a little bit. Over the next year or so, she loosened up and began to like other people. She was the most loyal dog I have ever had; not once did she ever growl or raise a lip to me. She was always up for a ride in the truck, and when it wasn’t too hot, I would always take her wherever I went, for I could just leave her in the cab, and she would nap while I was doing whatever. She never whimpered or whined once; it was if though she knew everytime that I would always be back for her. She was right.

She quickly became my best friend. Always there no matter what. Always happy to see me every morning and every evening. Always ready to play ball, or frisbee, or stick; hell, she would fetch pretty much anything.

Priss stuck with me when we moved to South Dakota in the winter of 2002. Even when it was -15° outside, she would still enthusiastically go for our evening walk around the campus of the University of South Dakota. She was a real trooper, and very versatile. She would make weekend trips with me from South Dakota to Arkansas, always ready to see her buddy Pancho, who she would eventually become roommates with.

Eventually, we moved back to Arkansas, and then we moved out to the country. You try so hard sometimes to do the right thing, but then it only comes back to haunt you. When we lived in town, we had a small fenced-in back yard, and her and Pancho were rather cramped. Plus, our neighbors all had dogs, so they all barked at each other constantly. So moving out of town and getting a couple of acres would be great for the dogs, right? We had to keep them around the house; we obviously didn’t want them out running wild in the woods. We ended up getting the “shock” collars for them both, which meant they couldn’t use the whole yard, but still had alot of room to roam. Long story short, the batteries died in their collars one day, and they figured it out and when out for a joyride. I went looking for them and found Pancho. He had this look in his eyes like he had seen something that he didn’t want to see. I had a feeling that I knew what he had seen. The next day, I found Priss on the highway, in a condition that no one should ever have to find their best friend. I brought her home and put her to rest under an oak tree in the woods of our side yard. I go out and visit with her every once in a while.

I see people playing with their dogs, and honestly, it makes me jealous. It also saddens me sometimes. I see people not taking care of their dogs, and it really pisses me off. I considered myself an excellent pet owner. But yet, I somehow let her batteries go unchecked. It’s hard to tell yourself that you gave someone everything you could, and that they had a good life. You are always left to think that surely there was more you could have done, right? I’m left with knowing that I should’ve checked those damn batteries. I’m also left with knowing that if I hadn’t moved out of the city, Priss would be with me right now, lying on the floor at my feet, and I wouldn’t be writing this damn post. As with anything else in life, it’s the shoulda-coulda-woulda’s that always get you, isn’t it?

Pancho isn’t the same anymore either. He has this empty look sometimes. He knows what happened, I imagine he saw it all go down. He also knows that under those stones, beneath the oak tree in the side yard, is our old buddy Priss. Happy birthday, girl. We all miss you.