Or maybe the title should be, Blood, Tears, and Smiles.

(The daughter keeps badgering me about this one . . . I tell her each time that I’m not ready to yet, ‘cause I’m a sentimental mush about it, and it seems impossible to get the whole feeling that was involved onto a piece of paper. But anyways, here is a try at it.)

It happened upon a day, that the sweet daughter approached her parents and mentioned casually that she was interested in getting a male and a female dog and raising pups to sell.

And, it happened upon the same day, that the good wife readily consented to the idea presented by the sweet daughter.

It was left then, to the pudgy man who lived with them, to agree or disagree with them. 

And so, with very little ado, the decision was made.  Whether or not the pudgy man actually had a say in the matter remains a question to this day.

Needless to say, his abilities were put to use almost immediately in construction of a pen, and later, a glorified doghouse that measured 12’x16’, decorative fascia, air conditioning, and all. 

Of course, the doghouse was justified, for, as the sweet daughter explained, part of it would also serve as a repository for stuff other than dogs if the pudgy man would pay for 2/3 of the doghouse himself.  Said offer made most graciously by the sweet daughter.  

And then, it happened upon a day, that the sweet daughter asked of the man to accompany her to the casino parking lot, on a Sunday morning, to pick up a 2-year-old Alaskan malamute named Aurora. 

Of course, once the man laid eyes upon her, she became his dog, much to the daughter’s disgust. 

Although one could say the loyalty was short lived; as soon as the man and his daughter reached home and opened the trunk, that fine princess departed and headed back east towards Missouri, from whence she had traveled in the last 24 hours.

It made for a class action pursuit through hill and bales until she was finally reported safe back to her new home. 

The savory meat that had been placed on the grill before leaving for the casino was decidedly dry and unsavory by the time all had partaken of it.

And, shortly thereafter, upon another day, the sweet daughter asked of the man to accompany her 2 ¾ hours eastward towards the city of Wichita to receive a male puppy, of the same purebred breed, that was even then winging his way westwards from the state of Indiana.

Of course, the pup saw some of the same likable attributes in the man that the female had seen, and made a complete nuisance of himself by crawling squarely onto his lap and chest as he attempted to chauffer themselves homeward.

Now the female dog seemed to feel somewhat responsible to live up to her proper name and began to manifest characteristics of such.  Namely, she terrorized the boys in this house with feinting, and not so feinting attacks upon their persons. 

She was such a beautiful dog and had such a mournful howl that one could hardly believe it of her.  But the torn jeans bore mute testimony to a darker side of her that we did not know existed.

But it wasn’t all concentrated on the boys.  Although what I say next wasn’t necessarily an afront against the daughter, she was the one who got the brunt of it. 

We were eating dinner when a vicious three-way fight started right outside our patio door between her, the male we had picked up from the airport, and my faithful Boola.  I’m not sure what the daughter was thinking, or maybe not thinking, when she opened the door with the intention of diffusing the fight.  If she had a protective streak towards my Boola, I could understand it, because he was getting a fairly rough working over.  But I don’t think she did.  She went to the aid of the female, in sort of, you know, ‘stand by your own kind’ type of gesture.

But the female was crazed with the fight and turned on the sweet daughter. 

Things got serious in a short hurry then for the pudgy man and the daughter’s older brother.  We both leaped out of our chairs and ran out.  Austin grabbed the dog, and I had a peripheral snapshot of that sweet dog flying laterally though the air, some six feet up and twenty feet out from where we were situated.  Meanwhile, I had grabbed the sweet daughter, who was also crazed with the fight, and while I didn’t launch her quite as bodily as Austin did the dog, I did manage to get her back inside, but only after a wound had appeared on her wrist which we eventually had to have x-rayed, because we thought it must be broken from all the pain she was enduring.  Turned out she was okay, if not for a bruised bone to finished healing up.

One night, the good wife and I had been gone for the evening, and, upon returning, heard a very distressed call for help from the eldest son.  (By this time the female dog had a litter of new little pups and was quite protective of them.)

We followed our ears until we found him, standing rather hunched over in the garage, directly above a very large pool of blood that seemed to have come from his face, in fact, from his upper lip. 

We were told, (later) that without sound or warning, the sweet Aurora, for by now she was that to all of us, had leaped up and got his face, neatly severing his top lip with two fang marks about 3/8 inch long and all the way through to the inside. 

He and I got home around 2 the next morning after he was stitched up by a very kind and knowledgeable PA at the neighboring hospital.  And in spite of the neat job done in stitching, he still wears her mark, and probably will the rest of his life.

We loved that girl, though. 

All of us.

It seemed to us that she must have been somewhat abused in the last home she had, because when she came, she was very defensive and cowering.  But we kept at it with her, and the more love we gave her, the more she loved to soak it up.  It was a forgivable action on her part to defend her newborn pups when a fellow she hadn’t been with much was in that confined space with her.  I say that because, ever after that she had a soft place in her heart for Austin. 

It was so plainly evident.  If she came in the house, she would make a beeline straight for him and lay her head in his lap and gaze up at him with sort of a soft, sad look in her eyes.  I’m convinced she was trying to make it up to him for what had happened out there in her pen. 

And, as one by one her pups were sold, the dent in her happiness for a day or so was evident to all.  But then, maybe she was wearing the same dent the rest of us wore at those times.  It was hard to let those little tykes go, even though we knew it would be impossible to keep them all.   

All told, she gave the sweet daughter 24 pups, 21 of which lived and are now scattered throughout most of the western half and a bit of the eastern U.S.

She was a good mother to her pups and worked hard to make sure they all were fed and kept clean. 

I suppose that and the fact that she gave her allegiance to us so completely once she learned to trust us makes this next part a bit difficult to write. 

I feel like in a lot of ways, I was the one to blame for what happened.

She was expecting her fourth litter of pups.  We hadn’t planned this.  We thought she needed a break after three litters back-to-back. 

We knew her due date was close and had been keeping a sharp eye on her.  With each litter following the first one, her destructiveness lessened dramatically in the time before she gave birth.  Before that first litter, she had her pen torn halfway down, chewed through wires holding the gate and tore open 4 or 5 bags of dog food that was stored outside of her pen. 

Finally, on the day she started giving birth of her first litter, she dug a tunnel deep under her house and then closed off the entrance, so we couldn’t get her out.  I had to scoop out dirt and debris for a long time, burrow myself partially under the house and finally drag her out, much to her disgust.

But something was different about this fourth time.  She seemed a lot more subdued. 

Dogs are very punctual on their due dates.  It’s because their gestation time is so short, and the pups grow so rapidly during that time.  Too soon, and you have a very premature pup.  Too long, and the pups are too big to be born. 

We knew what day to expect the pups, but she went past.  At first, we thought maybe we had miscalculated.  But as she became more lethargic and the spark went out of her eyes, we knew something was wrong.

The other thing against us—it was Saturday, and no vet would take us on.

I found her in some weeds, out in the hot, torturous sun, softly moaning to herself.  I got her up on her feet and we made our way, very unsteadily, she and I both, to the air conditioned room she normally birthed in. 

She lay there, crying.  The ladies joined us, and they were crying.  I quickly checked her gums and saw she had no blood pressure.  I did an exam . . . and found one breeched.  The birthing canal was fiercely hot; I’m guessing she must have been running an extreme temp by that time. 

And then she died. 

Even now it’s hard for me.  She had worked so hard for us, been a friend in so many ways, and an enemy in some too. 

The sweet daughter and I loaded her in the bucket of the skid steer and both of them rode in it out to a hole I had dug.  We laid her down gently in the bottom of that hole, folded her legs in a comfortable position and closed her eyes. 

And then . . . then my daughter and I stood there, holding hands, and crying. 

I know, some of you that read my stuff have recently laid your family to rest.  You will probably be angry at me for crying over a dog, and that’s okay.  You have gone through a profound loss.

That dog taught us a lot of things and gave us a lot of good memories.

So, here it is, my daughter.  I hope it doesn’t pain you as much as it does me yet.