Missing Crosby

Today's Relief Society lesson was on forgiveness. The teacher mentioned an article she'd read on the Wall Street Journal which poses this question: Who do you treat better? Your pet or your spouse? It noted that most people actually tend to treat their pets better than their spouse because they are much more forgiving of their faults. This got me to thinking about our family pet. My siblings might argue that I treat my spouse much better than I did our dog.

When I was a kid my parents got an Old English Sheepdog for my little sister Reagan which we named Crosby. He was an adorable puppy and then he grew, and grew, and grew. Technically he wasn't as big as he looked. Sheepdogs really are a lot of fluff and he had tons of hair. It wasn't really Crosby I took issue with, it was his hair. My room had shag carpeting which was a disaster with the shaggy dog. Crosby's hair got everywhere because he shed TONS and because he eagerly climbed on the seats of the car it was on everything I wore. Admittedly, I hated that. Even when I was a kid I liked things to be clean, organized, tidy and to have my friends point out a tuft of hair on my butt was embarassing. I tried to keep him out of my room to no avail. I can remember firmly telling him, "Cros! Get out of my room" to which he'd respond by laying down and sighing as if to say, "Whydoncha come over and make me?" Well anyway, that is why my siblings were under the impression that I hated that dog.

I really didn't hate him at all. Crosby was always happy to see me even with my irritation at the mess he left behind. He was the greatest running partner I've ever had because he dragged me behind him as he loped from fire hydrant to fire hydrant, propelling me much faster than I could have on my own. Our neighbors had a boxer they named Ike because they admired President Eisenhower. Oh how Crosby tortured Ike and oh how we loved to watch the melee. Ike was kind of a stupid dog, he really had it coming most of the time. When Crosby heard someone walk in the front door he'd scramble down the hardwood hallway. In fact, he'd run so fast that without fail he'd start sliding into the doorway to the living room and his legs had to pump doubly fast for him to make the 90 degree turn to the front door. If I'd had a rough day, Crosby was always ready for a hug. How great is it to have someone in your life who is always at the ready for a hug? He never had to consider what kind of day he'd had and whether he had the emotional energy to give back to me, he just did.

More than anything, I think Crosby's most endearing attribute was that despite his size, he thought he was a small dog. When we were all piled on Mom and Dad's bed watching a movie he'd get one paw, then two, then his nose and then he'd quickly shimmy himself completely on. All the while Mom would repeat his name over and over in that warning tone that says he shouldn't be doing it. But once he'd settled in there was simply no moving him. Crosby repeatedly escaped from the backyard when we were out. As our van pulled into the driveway he'd "hide" between the bushes that lined the front of the house. As if you could miss a huge, furry sheepdog between the bushes! When we piled out of the van he'd run up like, "Oh hey guys! Whatcha doin? I didn't even realize you were home!" Any chastizement he received for escaping (yet again) was overshadowed by his excitement to see us again.

My best memories are of when he actually got to go with the family in the van. Consequently, if you wanted to see his little stub of a tail wiggle wildly all you had to say was, "Cros, wanna go WITH?" His claws would scratch the wood floor as he preemptively jumped around and sniffed towards the door. Returning home as we neared the house Dad would rap the dashboard and sternly instruct Crosby to get the squirrels that had taken over the backyard in his absence. One oak tree in particular still has a dirt moat Crosby created from running around the base in his vain efforts to keep the squirrels from invading his territory. When Dad mentioned the word squirrel he would start shaking with anticipation and whining. He'd always jump on Mom's lap which led to a cry of protest from her. "Cros!" she'd yell and then she'd chastize my father for getting him worked up. Dad never seemed to hear, he was having too much fun seeing Crosby's killer instinct kick in. As soon as the door to that van was open Crosby was out like a flash, into the backyard, running around that tree. Then he'd turn back to the house and bark as if to give us the all clear. It was so funny! Ahhhh, it may sound lame but I'm crying just thinking about it.

One of the many books on Old English Sheepdogs mentioned once you have one you never want to get any other type. Brent has mentioned if we ever do get a dog he'd like an Alaskan Malamute which sounds nice... but part of me still wants an Old English Sheepdog. No matter what we get (if we ever DO get a dog) there will never be another Cros. Oh, now I need a hug! Did you have a pet? Do you still miss him?