Monday was one of the most difficult days ever. Jeff and I took our beloved Roxie to the vet and had her compassionately put to sleep. We said our goodbyes and I sang her favorite songs in her ear as she drifted off, snuggled up in her favorite dog bed. My heart split in half as I watched the process, but I also felt the relief of knowing that she was not suffering. Believing that she was once again running free over the rainbow bridge, reunited at last with her brother Kismet and the other friends that left this physical world before her.

Since Roxie was just shy of 19 years old, I have been preparing myself for this day for a while. I made her last years as comfortable as possible, given that we live on a sailboat. (We joke that three years ago, we bought a bigger boat for our fur-kids). I think I did a pretty good job. In fact, I like to believe that I was (am) an awesome dog-mom.

In my mourning, I’ve been looking through old pictures, and came across this little narrative that “Roxie” wrote several years ago. I am also attaching some of my favorite pictures of her. She was my Rock, my Girl, my Best Friend. Run Free, Roxie. I’ll always love you.

I, Roxie

I, Roxie, am a Very Important Dog. It is my daily job to see that everything is precisely right.

Every morning, at exactly 7:59:48, I fix “the stare” on Mom. Standing over her, I will her to wake up, which, of course, she does. I’m not sure why she feels the need to set her alarm for 8:00, because my silent stare is much more effective than a stupid bell.

As soon as Mom’s feet hit the floor, I turn circles, Tasmanian Devil-style, barking and getting everyone together. My two fur-brothers obediently fall in line. I must get the day started.

I am a “Hybrid Herder.” That sounds much more impressive than Mutt. When Mom adopted me, she had no idea what she was getting into. Originally, her plan was to “replace” her deceased Golden Retriever mix. So when she went to a local rescuer’s home to meet her “intended” new dog, I needed to make sure that it was me, and not Goldie, that won the ultimate prize–a forever home.

When I watched Mom and Goldie interact, I knew the chemistry was off. Mom only thought she wanted an adult retriever. Goldie was aloof and showed no interest. As Mom turned to leave, I knew I had better work fast–not a problem for me.

I barked to get her attention, and when she looked in my direction, I gave her my best stare. Our eyes locked.

“What kind of puppy is this?” She asked Sherry, my foster mom, as she picked me up. I was a kitten-sized ball of black and white fluff with a comical black mask and oversized ears.

“She’s a Mini-Aussie, far as I can tell” replied Sherry.

I kissed her nose, and that’s all she wrote. She was mine. Or so I thought.

I was shocked when she handed me back to Sherry. Shocked!

“I’ll think about it,” she said before she drove away.

According to Mom’s story, she went home to research Herding breeds. She was clueless as to what perfect dogs we are, and she needed to make the right decision.

Intelligent. Energetic. Loyal. I could have told her that. Then she read some other traits, namely, the one about herding. Kids, people, dogs. As long as I have a job to do, it’s all good.

Two days later, Mom came back with her other dog, Kismet, a terrier. He sniffed me a lot, which I wasn’t crazy about, so I asked Mom to pick me up. She did. SCORE! On the ride home with my forever Mom, Kismet and I shared the back seat like familiar siblings.

As I grew, my different herding dog breed characteristics became more pronounced. While, like a Border Collie, I am lean in the torso with a long tail, my legs, much like a Corgi’s, have remained short and stout. My exaggerated ears stand pointed much like a Cattle Dog, and I have the dense, blue merle-patterned coat of an Australian Shepherd.

I am a real head turner. Total strangers often stop to ask about my uncommon beauty. They’re surprised when Mom tells them that I am a rescue dog. If they pet me I may indulge them with a trick or two. They say they also want to rescue a Hybrid Herder.

Mom calls me her “Velcro Dog.” I follow her throughout the house and yard. She doesn’t understand that I am keeping her out of trouble. I call it “Mommy Radar.”

Once Mom jumped out of our boat so she could be pulled behind it on some big board. Didn’t she realize that such crazy antics are dangerous? I jumped out and swam to her rescue. Then she had the nerve to scold me! But she doesn’t jump out of the boat when I’m along anymore.

I love hiking. It is crucial that I dodge between Mom, Dad and my two fur-brothers while barking orders at them. Kismet, the terrier, likes to wander off. He is not a good listener. Chance, the new rescued dog, is tiny, white and fluffy. He’s a real “girly” dog who doesn’t follow the rules. They have me to thank for keeping everyone together. It is serious business, my herding. Very serious.

I guess Mom and Dad weren’t too pleased with me when I landscaped the yard. And they were really upset when I carved the legs of the rocking chair with my teeth. So Mom came up with a crazy scheme to keep me busy. She taught me all kinds of “tricks”, like weaving between her legs and jumping through hoops. I have a whole routine I get to perform regularly at the nursing home, and I am a huge hit. That’s because I, Roxie, am a certified Therapy Dog.

I know several words, like “Frisbee,” “lake” and “swimmie.” My very, very favorite word is “walkie.” When Mom says that word, I go find her sneakers and bring them to her, because I want to hurry her along. I like to carry my own leash on our walks. That’s because I am my own boss. I also like to shake it and pull on it like a tug-of-war. Mom says it’s payback for her own teenage years.

There are, however, certain things that I cannot, will not tolerate. Loud noises, for one. Vacuum cleaners, thunder or fireworks send me ducking for cover under my bed. I get so nervous my teeth chatter, so we avoid exposure to those things when possible. Oh, and the flying insects also really bother me. I would eat them if I could, but that’s hard to do when you’re hiding.

I’m a senior dog now, although I still have my wits about me. I’m still active, I just can’t jump as high or run as far. And I take lots of naps. But at the end of the day, when Mom takes her feet off the floor, I will be in my place beside her on the bed, protecting her through the night. Because I, Roxie, am a Very Important Dog.

As you can see, Roxie was full of personality. The joy and entertainment she brought us is irreplaceable.

Thank you, Roxie, Old Girl, Doodle-Butt, Foxy Roxy, Baby-Doo. I will always love you.