I have known and cared for many dogs in my long life; Pootie was the best, ever. She saved the life of someone I love and Pootie's heart was always, always full of love, trust and loyalty. She wasn't our dog, she was part of our family. Our hearts are broken. It is only in the belief that all dogs go to heaven that we find comfort in her not being with us any longer.
A re-publication of a post called "Hand" from just a year ago....
DICTIONARY
hand
/hand/
noun
1.
the end part of a person's arm beyond the wrist, including the palm, fingers, and thumb.
"he was leading her by the hand"
2.
[oilfield worker]; a term of endearment in the oil industry used out of respect for others, as in "he's a good floor hand." Not to be confused with the term, worm.
When Pootie first signed on with our chicken shit little outfit I knew straight away she was going to make a good oilfield hand. She took to jumping in the back of the pickup, followed me into logging trucks and up onto rig floors to hang out in the dog house like it was no big deal She listened well, wanted to learn new stuff and always worked with a smile on her face. She was a lot smarter than most vacuum truck drivers I know, would eat cold Vienna Sausages out of the toolbox and between connections she would sneak off to catch a little nap, like all good roughnecks. From the get-go she was never afraid to get her hands dirty.
Over the years her job skills developed and she is now VP in charge of making sure everybody on location is working hard and that they don't drop pieces of breakfast kolaches or lunch tacos on the ground. She stands guard for mama cows and jack rabbits and wants to help however she can. She works for little more than bones and belly rubs, never whines and seldom talks back, save to let you know when it's time to go to the house for supper.
The next morning, she's always ready to roll out for another day. The backseat is her's; she rests her arm on the arm rest and when she wants to put down the pickup window there isn't much use arguing with her.
What do stripper well families do on a warm, sunny Super Bowl Sunday? We paint cattle guards, that's what. No need to ask what color the paint was; as usual Poot was right in the middle of all of it.
Poot is pushing 10 now, which makes us about the same age. We've both become creatures of habit, we get up before first light each morning and wander outside to mark our respective territories; she's then ready for breakfast and I'm ready for coffee. We both wobble and creak a little, because everything hurts, but in the end it's all about how much heart you have and how willing you are to get on with the day. What hurts eventually becomes tolerable and there's work to be done. She's willing.
God did big work when He made dogs...
