Many things have come about since my father’s passing. Many of which I can’t think about, none alone write about. One thing however brings a smile to my face. And that thing has a name: Sophie. A hefty Labrador with tar black fur and root beer colored eyes that now resides with my brother. In the end – she was the only thing that brought a perpetual smile to my dad’s face. During his hardest times, he often wished she could talk.
When a babysitter is needed, I'm always first in line. The line is short – it consists of one. But I don’t mind. As far as my dogs are concerned, “It’s just cousin Sophie, comin’ for a sleepover.” Everyone mingles well.
When I see Sophie though, I see the face that won my dad’s heart. He was forever in awe of her ability to refrain from blinking when food was in view. This morning, while crunching slowly on my toast, I was the recipient of her locked-on stare. Sadly, her efforts reaped nothing. I would have tossed a scrap of toast into the air for her to catch like a gator (her signature style), if I could’ve done so without triggering a full on mad house from the others. My two hounds are never far from my feet; ears open, eyes closed. Especially if their bodies are centered within a rectangle of sun on the floor. When there, they enter a sun filled stupor like no other. But not Sophie.
Sophie, due to whatever psychological reasons they may be, will eat anything and everything in sight. This loosely translates into her being a vacuum. If food is out there – she’ll find it. She finds pieces of kibble wedged within the heat vents; long given up on by my vacuum and apparently by me, as I’ve never taken the time to pry them out of the metal slats that held them tightly in place. Thanks to Sophie though, they are now set free.
Like a machine running in the background, Sophie pants noisily and continuously; unless consumed by a dead slumber, in which she snores. There is an upside however, like a cowbell; her panting allows me to locate her easily.
Sophie can do many things, jumping isn’t one of them. I discovered this the hard way. Picking her up for a sleep over one evening, I took note of the stare she gave me when I pointed toward the open door of my Jeep. It was a stare that simply said, “You’ve got to be kidding?” With no other options, I wrapped my arms around her wide circumference and hurled her like a bag of cement into the backseat. She offered whatever assistance she could in the form of flailing legs and feet. That is, until her nose picked up the scent of old French fries left behind by my daughter. Like a hog unearthing truffles from the forest floor, Sophie buried her snout deep within the paper wrapper that contained stale French fries. Thank God the fries were in the backseat, exactly where I needed Sophie.
She travels well though - instead of an overnight bag, she brings her woobie – a very old, very dirty stuffed animal, she curls beneath her when she sleeps. Since I’ve known Sophie, she has had this animal and knows it by name. Tell her to get on her woobie – and she will. Sitting in the passenger seat, while my brother placed her woobie in the back of his pickup truck, Sophie found the beef jerky he had stuffed in his visor. She marked it with slobber; saving it for later I’m assuming. Standing in our driveway, my daughter and I waved goodbye to my brother and Sophie. My brother waved back, Sophie glanced over her shoulder at us as the truck rolled away. I hope Sophie is with us for quite awhile. Lose her and in many ways, I lose my dad – again.
Sane
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