Regular readers of this column are familiar with our dogs who, until Riley the Wonder Dog, preferred to go by pseudonyms to protect their privacy. Snoopy was actually named Scooby, Steve was really Rascal, and our sweet girl Rose was really named Daisy.
Four years ago, Scooby passed. Rascal followed a little over two years ago. At ages 15 and 17, they lived good, long lives. Most recently, our beautiful Daisy girl followed them at nearly 14.
In her memory, I’m going to tell you some funny and wonderful things about Daisy that made her such a great girl.
My late Mom, Bev, adopted Daisy from what was then the City pound. After she and my stepdad finished filling out the paperwork, the man in charge said, “Thanks for saving a life.” My Mom responded that we always adopted rescues. He said, “No, you really did save her life. She was scheduled to be put down tomorrow.” We never forgot how close we had come to not having Daisy. And neither did she.
Daisy was only eight months old, and, at the time, the vet said she looked like she was part Old English Sheepdog. It wasn’t until a couple of years ago that we saw a photo of a LabraDoodle and realized that’s most likely what Daisy was.
Didn’t matter to us either way. She was just a big white ball of fuzzy love.
As a puppy, she was, well, not a “good” dog. She got into everything. When she had done something really bad, my Mom would yell and remind her, “I saved you from death row! Now be good!”
Daisy would respond by smiling and wagging her tail, which made it super difficult to stay mad at her.
Daisy, who also went by the names Daisy Girl and Daisy Mary (like most kids, she needed a middle name to yell, so she would know when you were really mad at her!), was the only dog I’ve had who loved hugs. When you would lean down and hug her, she would rest her head on your shoulder and smile a mile wide.
When we moved into our present home, Daisy showed us how inquisitive she was. She would spend hours and hours outside exploring. This, at first, drove my stepdad nuts, as they had lived in the city and had a small, concrete back yard. Even though she was safely enclosed in this new, grass-covered, bigger yard, he would freak out if she stayed outside too long. Many times, I’d see him slowly running across the yard, yelling at her to get into the house. She would glance back and smile as if to say, “Ha, ha, you can’t catch me!”
One day, I heard Daisy barking like crazy out back. But it wasn’t her “danger” bark; it was the happy one.
When I went out, I caught her batting a toad around like it was a new toy. And she didn’t even like to play with toys. She would sniff the toad, it would jump, and she would bat at it with her paw.
“Daisy, no!” I yelled. After a few attempts, I caught the shell-shocked amphibian, and carried him out front, placing him in the garden.
About 15 minutes later, I heard Daisy barking again. I opened the back door only to see her batting around the same toad.
“DAISY MARY!!!!”
She stopped. But only long enough to say, “Look what I got!”
Again, I rescued the toad, but put him into the woods that time. I gave him a parting message, “If I were you, I would hop away. And fast!”
Daisy was always hungry and stole food anywhere and anytime she could. From other dogs, from people’s plates at cookouts, from the trash, and from little kids who were more on her level, height-wise. One Easter, we caught her in the dining room. While she wouldn’t jump on the table, she did spend most of the day sitting next to it, staring intently at the ham, desperately trying to will it off the plate and into her mouth.
Thankfully, she never mastered telekinesis.
Although she was never a momma herself, Daisy was the ultimate “Momma” dog. She loved babies, toddlers, children, and puppies. If another dog yelped, she was right on the scene, smelling all over him, making sure he was okay. She would play with our friends’ kids, and chase them all over the house and yard. And they would respond in kind.
Last summer, she discovered that barking made our friends’ daughter laugh. So she kept it up. (If you want to see the video of this, go to wojosworld.com, under the recent post at My Life with Riley.)
Daisy hated baths and would “make herself heavy” as my mom used to say, by planting her feet firmly in the tub and leaning into the person washing her. Anytime Daisy got a bath, everyone else got soaked.
If you stopped petting her, she would take her front foot and keep pawing at you until you started back up. If Rascal or Scooby aggravated her, she would hit them in the face with her paw. Gently, though, just enough to get them to stop. And Riley, well, him she would chase because, like she never wanted to stop being petted, he never wanted to stop playing.
Over all the years I knew Daisy, every time we would ask, “Do you want to go?” she would go ballistic—barking and running around and jumping. Until the last time. Her body had begun to give out, and we all knew what was coming. When I asked if she wanted to go, she just stood up and waited to go to the car.
There are so many more stories about this great girl, but I only have so many words here.
Rest well, Daisy Girl. I hope that wherever you are, you can bat at Rascal and Scooby, run through lush, green grass, and finally make that ham come off the table straight to you.
Michele Wojciechowski, when she’s not missing her Daisy Girl, writes “Wojo’s World® from Baltimore.