In memory of Daisy, who died from cancer recently, we are honoring her positive spirit which brought joy and love to her family for almost 18 years. The following article was written by Christopher Priest, and initially published in Bark Magazine:
All dogs go to heaven. They all represent unconditional love and an incomparable companionship. They are our family.
We always had a joke though about Daisy Mae—a blackish, grayish, brownish terrier mutt who passed away in April at 18 (the vet says 19). We always joked that Daisy Pants would never make it to heaven. She was that kind of dog. She was naughty, she connived, she ruled, she ran away, she judged.
We always joked that Daisy Bottom would go to the other place and quickly be running it within a week. She was that kind dog–she outsmarted everyone and everything. She caught backyard birds–we’d find their massacred little bodies. She figured out how to open her dog food container and we found her stomach bloated, unable to get up, with no more water in the house. We bought her toys you had to figure out to get treats and she’d be munching on them in seconds–another supposedly difficult puzzle solved too quickly.
Daisy Pants was adopted from the Seattle Animal Shelter in about 2000. She was found wandering the streets of Seattle without a collar, filthy, in good shape, content. She was a street dog. She remained a feral spirit until her final days. She would sneak out and go wreak havoc and be back before we got home from work. She did this for weeks–until a neighbor said, “you know… your dog gets out every day.” She would get out, we’d spend hours searching for her, and then we’d see her strolling home, as if she’d done what she wanted, accomplished her purpose, and knew it was about dinner time.
Daisy Mae was home in the mountains, on old logging trails, running through the underbrush, diving into snow banks, chasing fun smells, searching–there was not a hole she would not stuff her head into. Daisy Bottom was home in the city, on long walks, smelling fire hydrants and garbage cans, swimming in urban fountains, chasing squirrels, searching–she had a knack for always getting into things when you weren’t looking.
For all her trickery, Daisy was a good canine citizen. She spent hours at nursing homes and children’s hospitals letting the elderly pet her and showing off for children. She had more education than most college grads. She could do more tricks than most good magicians. She knew her right from left, could spin both ways, drop down, pop up, beg, bow, say her prayers, shake hands and give high fives or high tens, jump through arms, close doors behind her, and grab a tissue if you sneezed. When she went up to a bed, she would sit down and put her paw up on the mattress and let the child or the old woman pet her as long as they wanted.
Daisy had chandelier ears we called chandelears. She brought joy to people who saw her with her dark brown human eyes and speckled neck and ever-changing hairstyles–she could look like a scruffy wolf, the Tramp (from Lady and the Tramp), a schnauzer, or some unknown, wild canine cousin just visiting.
She was good at expressing herself. She had a vocal range like no other–she could plead, she could sigh, she could howl, she could moan, she could sing, she could whine, and she could bark. But she had a funny bark, a bark not quite a bark for a dog her size, and you could kind of tell she knew it.
Daisy Mae was an adventure. She loved to run, to chase, to be chased, to sprint along the ocean’s edge with the waves rolling in, to swim–if there was water, she was in it. She loved road trips. When she saw the bags come out, she would weave around them and pant. She would stand by the door and run to the car.
Our house was Daisy’s territory. She patrolled the grounds and made sure nothing was amiss. No living thing was allowed in its boundaries. Two or three times a night, she would get out of bed and make her way through the house, out into the yard, and around the perimeter. We once watched her herd children like they were sheep. In fact, when we took Daisy to try to herd sheep, it was like she’d been doing it her entire life–within seconds, she had them corralled, the minder baffled and impressed.
My wife rescued Daisy 18 years ago. She went to the Seattle Animal Shelter, took one look at Daisy and they were a family. When she was young, it was just the two of them. Daisy went to work all over the state with her every day. She ate what Lolly ate. She went where Lolly went.
I very strongly believe Daisy saw it differently. I very strongly believe Daisy was annoyed with herself for getting caught by some crafty animal control officer, that she had an intricate, fool-proof plan to escape, but then…she met Lolly, decided to give her a chance, and fell in love. She was never un-wild, she just chose to let herself wear a collar, do some tricks for treats, tolerate a half-brother named Linus, sleep in a big comfy bed between two people, and keep them safe, keep them warm, make them happy.
Daisy got old. She slowed down. She needed more help. She needed special food. When she wanted to smell something she would drop down onto all fours and refuse to move. She still loved the outside. She wanted to go on walks–we bought her a pet carriage and took her all over the city.
She got cancer.
All dogs go to heaven. Daisy left on a bright, warm, sunny day after a weekend filled with her favorite things, and a final day with her favorite person. It doesn’t feel like anything will ever be the same around here. Daisy was too important, too unique, too special. We like to believe in reincarnation. We like to believe when Daisy gets asked what she’d like to go back as, she decides on a rescue dog.