As a family we scanned the papers (pre Craigslist of course) and much to my mother’s initial dismay (we already had two dogs on the farm) my brother found a breeder nearby who just had a litter who were ready for new homes. On a cold and foggy valley morning my dad’s Chevy truck rolled into our driveway with my brother in the passenger seat holding a black ball of fluff. As Chad walked through the kitchen door holding the puppy in his arms my mom slowly wandered over to him and peered down, ready to raise a skeptical eyebrow at the new responsibility that she secretly knew was going to become her next chore on her never ending list of household to-do’s. The puppy unwound itself from a curled up ball, looked up at my mom with those big brown eyes and the rest was history – my mother was sold. The stipulation however, was that the dog – affectionately named Dixie though none of us can recall who thought up the title – was to be an outdoor farm dog whose days were to be spent chasing sheep and guarding the house. Dogs were meant to be outside, not inside. The theory almost worked had it not been for a very cold winter and my mother's maternal instincts to keep the puppy comfortable and warm but only as far as the laundry room. As soon as the days heated up the dog was to be outside.
The days, weeks and eventual months however turned into spring and the dog’s territory inside the house expanded into the kitchen and rooms beyond. She was taught tricks, easily potty trained with never an accident, learned to respond to commands as if she was almost human and even helped mom with the laundry as she went through the homestead picking up our dropped socks and piling them up. Ever so quietly Dixie had become a permanent fixture in the Souza household.
Just four short years later two of the Souza kids flew out of the nest to go to college and only one remained, Dixie, standing by to keep mom company as dad logged long days on the ranch. The clicking of nails on the tile provided comfort to an otherwise quiet residence; the small thud of the dog’s body laying down on the floor became commonplace; the barking to alert of approaching strangers was heard more than our doorbell. Her three litters of puppies brought spectators from all around – we never kept one but giving them away was like departing with grandchildren with the comfort of knowing they were going to homes where they would provide the same level of joy and comfort their mother had given us.
The years lingered and Dixie’s fixture in the home was more that of a family member than a dog. She had her own stocking on the fireplace at Christmas, enjoyed regular appointments to the groomers, vacationed with us and even maintained a colorful wardrobe of scarves that mom tied around her neck according to the seasons.
For twelve years Dixie dog was the bow that tied our family together and this old farmhouse might never be the same without her…Dixie, you will be missed.
