She was born December 14, 1988, in Kennesaw, Georgia. Her mother’s name was Jan ABC 5426. He father was Ben ABC 5425.
Her birth name was ABC 11429. Her registration certificate described her as BLK W/WHT CRL.BLZ.MUZ.TT. STOCK: ROUGH: MEDIUM.
She came from a litter of five female border collies. On February 9, 1989, my son Britt bought her and named her Kelly.
Britt did the hard part of raising and training her, but soon, he and Terri moved into an apartment that allowed only one pet per family.
At the time, they had two pets. The other was Vanna, Terri’s beloved cat. One of them had to go.
That was how Kelly came to live with Deanna and me in Lawrenceville.
At first, I had no particular feeling about her one way or the other. She was just a dog we took in. We already had a Lhasa Apso and a Yorkie.
But soon, in the inexplicable way these things happen, Kelly and I fell in love. The process was gradual, but as any fool could see, Kelly was a delight — friendly, healthy, well-adjusted, dignified, devoted, and incredibly intelligent.
This took place around the time Deanna and I got divorced. When I moved out, there was little question that Kelly would go with me. We moved to Suwanee, one town away, where I rented a house from my grandmother Leila. For the first time in my life, I was living alone.
Except that Kelly was with me. She was not only my roommate, but a link to my previous existence, when I was a married guy with kids around the house.
The split with Deanna was amicable. I tried hard to keep a lid on potential unpleasantness, for the sake of the kids, the rest of the family, and my own blood pressure. It was the right decision.
Dogs are amazing creatures, and Kelly was a gem among dogs. She was my companion, confidante, and trail buddy during a difficult time. She was a fine lady. My best girl.
Kelly wasn’t a mindless, doting pet. She was her own person, with her own feelings and an independent spirit. She was loyal and attentive, but never subservient.
At night, when we retired, she would allow me to pet her for a few moments and tell her good night. Then she would move away to her own space at the foot of the bed.
In all the years we were together, only once did I lose my temper and strike her.
My yard wasn’t fenced, but I was in the habit of allowing her go outside unattended. She never wandered far. She would bark to go out, and I would open the door for her, and in a minute or two, she would bark to come back inside.
This time, though, she didn’t return. After several minutes, I went looking for her.
I found her three houses away, sniffing around nonchalantly.
I was relieved and furious at the same time. I grabbed her collar and roughly led her home, getting angrier with every step. When we reached my front porch, I scolded her and slapped her muzzle. I regretted it instantly.
After I struck her, Kelly jerked free and retreated to the far side of the yard. She parked there and fixed me with a border collie stare.
She sat 50 feet away, watching me. I called her, but she refused to return to the house.
I sat down on the edge of the porch. Between blocks of silence, I spoke to her quietly and apologized, many times, and with great sincerity.
Twenty minutes later, she finally consented to come inside. But it was three days before she forgave me.
Kelly and I shared many adventures, and we had a wonderful life together. In spite of my shortcomings, we were a good match, a good couple.
Our partnership came to an end in 2003. For a couple of years, Kelly had kidney problems that at first we were able to treat, but eventually, were not.
One Saturday morning in April, it was clear that she couldn’t go on. I called the vet.
After one last hour together, Kelly and I went to the vet’s office. As I held Kelly in my arms, the vet put her to sleep. My best girl was 14.
It was a kindness, I know. I had no choice. But it was one of the blackest days of my existence.
Afterward, I vowed I would never have another dog. Losing them is too painful. And it always falls to the human to grieve.
That notion lasted six months. Paco, my second border collie, has been with me ever since.
He isn’t Kelly; I wouldn’t want him to be. He didn’t replace Kelly; no one could. But he and I are best pals, and you can’t ask for more than that.
Kelly in Lawrenceville, 1989.
A boy and his dog, Suwanee, 1991.
On the trail, 1999.
Kelly at the park, March 30, 2003. She died April 4th.
The Power of the Dog
There is sorrow enough in the natural way
From men and women to fill our day;
And when we are certain of sorrow in store,
Why do we always arrange for more?
Brothers and sisters, I bid you beware
Of giving your heart to a dog to tear.
Buy a pup and your money will buy
Love unflinching that cannot lie —
Perfect passion and worship fed
By a kick in the ribs or a pat on the head.
Nevertheless it is hardly fair
To risk your heart to a dog to tear.
When the fourteen years which Nature permits
Are closing in asthma, or tumour, or fits,
And the vet’s unspoken prescription runs
To lethal chambers or loaded guns,
Then you will find — it’s your own affair —
But… you’ve given your heart to a dog to tear.
When the body that lived at your single will,
With its whimper of welcome, is stilled (how still!);
When the spirit that answered your every mood
Is gone — wherever it goes — for good,
You will discover how much you care,
And will give your heart to a dog to tear.
We’ve sorrow enough in the natural way,
When it comes to burying Christian clay.
Our loves are not given, but only lent,
At compound interest of cent per cent.
Though it is not always the case, I believe,
That the longer we’ve kept ’em, the more do we grieve.
For, when debts are payable, right or wrong,
A short-term loan is as bad as a long —
So why in Heaven (before we are there)
Should we give our hearts to a dog to tear?
— Rudyard Kipling
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