Zippy the Wonder Dog

An essay about the sweetest little rescue dog I ever met.

One fine summer day almost eleven years ago, I was driving home from purchasing a frame for a new piece of artwork I had acquired. The route was a straight shot down a major thoroughfare, but I had an inexplicable impulse to cut through another neighborhood.

“Why did I do this?” I asked myself, as I realized I was adding unnecessary time to my journey home by going through the quiet, middle-class neighborhood.  Then the answer shot out in front of my car.

Literally.

A scraggly little dog came out of nowhere, streaking across the street, and I slammed on my brakes to avoid hitting her. I spent the next half hour driving up and down streets after her, then giving chase on foot through the yards of strangers.

The wily dog finally acquiesced and allowed me to scoop her up without objection. I set her on the passenger seat of my car and got a good look at my rescue. Her coat was bedraggled, and she clearly had missed a few meals. Some sort of black terrier mix, she looked a bit like Toto if he’d been born on the wrong side of the Kansas tracks.

As I pulled back into traffic, this sweet little orphan plopped down in exhaustion. She slid closer to me and put her head on my thigh. She glanced up at me several times as I drove home, and I was touched by the amount of trust it took for her to do that.

My plan was just to foster care her until I could get her into a shelter. I didn’t want a dog (even if I did, I would’ve been overruled by my trio of felines). I asked my mom to house her for a few days. Having witnessed many instances of her daughter finding the dregs of animal society and trying to save them,  my mother was hesitant at first. A bit hostile, even. I assured her this ugly little thing would be gone soon.

And God help me, this dog was an uggo. Giant donkey ears, wild fur going every which way, and overgrown feet. I have never taken to what I call ‘yap dogs’; the variety that yaps at any and everything, and wealthy heiresses tend to tote around in oversized designer bags.

I took the dog to my vet and was surprised to find out she was still a puppy. His guestimate was six months old, and likely mainly terrier with a healthy dose of chihuahua in her. (Man,  do I hate chihuahuas. The yappiest of all the yap dogs.) She spent a day at the vet’s office being treated for fleas, dehydration, and anemia. They bathed her, and I looked forward to picking up a much more comely pooch. Sadly, the result was a still goofy-looking yap dog with slightly cleaner, creepy, wiry fur.

After ascertaining there were no notices seeking this lost puppy, the Humane Society helped me nab a spot at the upcoming weekend’s Adoption Day at a nearby Petsmart.  Being both a small breed and a puppy practically guaranteed she’d find a home fast, I was told. I informed my mom that Le Uggo would be out of our lives in a few days.

Then mom surprised me.

“How do we know she’ll go to a good home? She’s such a sweet little thing. I don’t know about this Petsmart deal, Eve.” My jaw hit the proverbial floor when I saw her eyes were watering.

“Mom, have you fallen in love with that goofy ass dog?!”

Next thing you know, I’m calling Petsmart to cancel the whole deal. My mom was now the proud owner of five pounds of awkward.

I took the liberty of naming the dog. I had just seen the musical “Wicked” while on vacation in Dallas and was knee-deep in the book.  In this amazing fictional twist on the whole “The Wizard of Oz” story, the Wicked Witch of the West is actually a brilliant, misunderstood woman, shunned by society due to her looks. Elphaba was her formal name, but those close to her called her Elphie. It seemed appropriate, so I named the dog after the character.

You could say young Elphie soon became quite comfortable in her new abode.

She adopted the cats as beloved siblings, often horning in on their playtime and snoozing next to them. After a while, I’m pretty sure she was unaware that she was a different species than the kitties.

While Elphie was primarily my mother’s pet, she saw me as what I called “Mom #2”. When I’d go over to my mom’s house, she would explode with the joy usually reserved for a long-lost vet coming home from the war. As soon as I pulled up in the driveway, she’d run out the door as fast as her little terrier legs could carry her, dance and turn circles, then zip back inside to retrieve one of her toys. She would run it back outside to share with me, inviting me to play.

Whenever Elphie was let out in her backyard, she would celebrate by tearing around as fast as she could, running in figure eights over and over. She experienced joy on a level I had never seen in a pet before. Zippy the Wonder Dog, I called her.

When my mother’s dementia began to compromise her ability to live alone, I moved into her home. Elphie couldn’t have been happier. Over time, I blew a fair amount of money on a varied collection of her beloved squeaky plush toys. She established a hierarchy with them. Pinky the Flamingo was king of her world. The next favorite was Phil the Pheasant, then Woodstock the yellow bird, and so on. I remember the night Pinky went missing, and I spent almost two hours online, frantic in my pursuit to find an exact replacement.

Elphie transformed in my eyes. She became beautiful to me.  Lovely enough to dress up! Still, at least I never turned into one of those creepy dames that buy their tiny dogs an outfit to wear.

Wait, I can explain this. Elphie got cold when she went outside in the winter. It was Christmas. I was weak. You have to admit green is a good color for her. In my defense, it’s the only doggie outfit I got her. Except for the blue Snuggie. You read that right: I discovered on a trip to CVS that the adult blanket-as-sleepwear had been adapted to fit a snoozy pooch. I got her a blue one to lounge around the house in. In Elphie’s defense, she refused to wear it. Years later, in a moment of regret and sanity, I donated the Snuggie to an animal shelter, where I’m sure several more dogs refused to be dressed in it, too.

The years have flown by with Elphie always being a constant in my life. Quick to bark the second she senses trouble or an unexplained sound, her barking racket offered us a great sense of security. The only ones unimpressed were the wild deer that are often in the yard. When she went outside, instead of running off in great fear at the tiny canine predator, the deer would just stand there, chewing their cud with a thought bubble over their heads saying, “Call me when you’re a real dog”.

Sadly, the passing years also brought about poor health of late. Hip issues that are common in smaller dogs, and about which the vet had warned us would happen, began to affect Elphie’s ability to walk. Any measures taken would only be stopgap, and as one often has to do when contemplating the life of an aging pet, I had to consider if multiple trips to the vet – which would no doubt leave her trembling and hysterical, as they always did – and any accompanying procedures and meds would be extending her quality of life, or just making her last days more difficult than they needed to be.

I had to make a decision. As painful as it was, I chose a sooner journey to the Rainbow Bridge, rather than a later one. A tender mercy, as my friend so eloquently put it.

As the final day approached, I plied her with both her favored Pupperoni sticks and the cat treats she stole from the cats when they weren’t swift enough to gobble them down first.

I even convinced her someone was at the door, then recorded a minute of her barking fit on my phone. I know that long after she’s gone, anytime there is a stranger at my front door or I hear a questionable noise at night, I can play the recording, making it appear my tiny but loyal protector is on the job. There’s something incredibly bittersweet about knowing Elphie will still protect her Mom #2 long after she’s gone.

It took me over a month to get from the moment I chose to put her to sleep until the day I mustered the ability to make an appointment with the vet. When the day arrived, I became so despondent ten minutes before the appointment, I changed it to the next day. Ultimately, I had to go through with it. To make it even more brutally unfair, I had to hide what happened from my mother. Aren’t moms supposed to be the ones to comfort their children when they lose a family pet? Not anymore, not in my family.

I let Elphie go today.

Everyone says their dog is the best, but in my case, I suspect it was true. And if anyone wants to say their dog is equally as awesome, I can understand that. Just hold that thought for a week or a year or a lifetime. Right now, I just need to let everyone know that once there was an awesome little not so ugly yap dog that ruled my neck of the woods, and today I released her.

Thank you, Elphie, my canine love. Mom #2 will see you on the other side.