That autumn of 1978, there was a new litter of puppies down the dirt road and around the bend from where we had just moved in St. David's Church, Virginia. Border collies, we were told. They would look like Lassie, but smaller. One came home with our teenaged daughter and was soon known as Heidi.

She loved to run, she loved to explore, and the mountain valley we lived in allowed both delights. Cars came down the road infrequently, and when they did, they were intruders to be chased away. No amount of scolding seemed to convince her that the pleasure of chasing cars down the road should be given up.

She was always home by meal time until one very cold day in January when she didn't appear. We waited a day and worried. The next day we put the word out in the community's general store. In a few hours she came limping home. She had been caught in a trap whose owner remained anonymous. One paw was cold. When no circulation returned in a couple of days, the vet had to remove her leg. From that winter on, she was a three legged dog.

In those parts if you killed a deer accidentally with your car you could keep it, in season or out. One such deer was sent to a butcher, who returned it, neatly packaged and boxed, one evening when all of us were out but Heidi and her dog-friend Siddhartha. The helpful butcher left the box on the porch. When we returned, the yard was strewn with torn papers marked "steak" or "roast" and the box held a few remaining packages marked "burger". Dog food was of no interest for the next several days.

The next year we acquired a cat which had been removed from its mother too young and as a result missed the basic instructions on how to be a mother cat. She had a litter of kittens and was clueless on what to do with them. Heidi, who had had one litter before being spayed, came to the rescue, bathing the kittens and carrying them gently from one secure place to another. Several years later in Columbia we received a call from neighbors that our dog was eating a kitten. We discovered she had found another litter of kittens, and was merely carrying them to what she felt was a better location.

Work in Saudi Arabia posed some major lifestyle changes: what would Heidi do? Well, she would come with us. Saudis are not keen on dogs; to enter Saudi Arabia a dog must be a guard dog. Heidi, one of the sweetest dogs you could meet, became a guard dog. We began the paperwork. A certification by Columbia's Dr. Lewis that Heidi was OK. A certification by the State of Maryland that Dr. Lewis was a real veterinarian. A certification by the Federal Government that the State of Maryland was a real jurisdiction. The Saudis were not about to miss something.

On arrival day we went to the Riyadh airport to meet Heidi. Dogs come as cargo and the reception room was a warehouse. We wondered if this guard dog business would work, especially a guard dog with three legs. We came near her cage. She barked. Everyone was impressed. Clearly she was a guard dog.

 Later it was time to leave Saudi Arabia, and more paperwork was required. We took her to a Dutch vet who updated her shots and completed a form. "But I'm not official here," she said, "so you'll need to get these endorsed by the government vet. We went to the government veterinarian. He clearly did not want to actually see or touch a dog, and was relieved that the necessary work had already been done. He endorsed the forms.

Outside the office, several Saudis watched as I petted Heidi. I did not break out in a rash; my hands did not fall off, lightning did not come from the sky and punish me. One of them, I sensed, was a little wistful. The thought of being affectionate to a dog was supposed to be disgusting, yet it seemed here as if there might be something pleasant to it.

Back in America, the family went separate ways, and Heidi came my way to Columbia. The patio of a ground floor apartment seemed a pleasant place for a dog to spend the day while her owner was at work. One day I came home and discovered the chain had no dog attached. Nonetheless, there was Heidi curled up asleep in a corner. I sighed with relief. Later, as I gave her her evening walk, people came up to me. "Oh, are you the owner of that dog? We were worried about her. She was out in the middle of Hickory Ridge Road and had traffic stopped half the afternoon."

Heidi liked children and children liked her. All the children on the street knew Heidi, the three legged dog. Big kids petted her with confidence, and the tentative touches of the little ones were rewarded with pleasure.

Heidi lived in the Now. From what I could tell, she experienced no bondage to a tired past or illusory future; she spent no time regretting the loss of a leg or feeling sorry for herself, nor any time yearning for a future in which things could be better. Life was. Be Here Now was not a wishful command, but a way of life. She was a living sermon on The Eternal Present.

Heidi's Last Christmas

She seemed to accept these changes without question. "What is life like?" she might have been asked. "Life is being half blind, half deaf, tiring easily and falling frequently, and that's OK. Pet me please and I'll wag my tail."

Stairs that once were routine had become hard work, then impossible. We carried her more. Where once we touched her mainly by petting or hugging, now she was more like a baby, cradled in arms when carried from place to place.

Finally even the Now didn't work. We awakened at night to hear her plaintive howls from the basement. One night she had gotten facing into a corner and had lost the muscle power to back up, so she was stuck. I picked her up and pointed her in a different direction. Another night she was distressed that she needed to empty her bladder and couldn't lift herself up off the floor. We had reached the limit of what she could accept.

Monday morning, July 12, was to be the final trip. I carried her upstairs and brushed her coat. Somehow it seemed important to look nice one last time. She was hungry so I fed her, though nutrition had really ceased to be an issue. My wife found some dog treats and we figured what the hey, it's now or never. Then it was time to leave. We carried her to the car.

At Animal Control the staff were helpful but businesslike. Determined to be a place of beginnings as well as endings, the room was arranged to make sure you were tempted by puppies and kittens. More paperwork. "Breed," she asked. "Border Collie," I replied. Paperwork completed, we carried her in. "Oh, she's more like a Sheltie."

We carried her to the back and put her down on the metal table. We petted her a last time. "Goodbye, old dog," I said. And we left.

Waves of sadness came over me during the day. "Grief reaction," I identified. "You've experienced some kind of loss." How silly to have imagined I could just stop by Animal Control on the way to the office and then put in a routine day at work. Arriving home that evening, I saw the message light on the answering machine. Instantly my mind suggested: "it's Animal Control. The shot didn't take, you have to bring Heidi home." But of course there was no such message.

During the semi-conscious moments of the following night, that time when thoughts feel most profound, a picture of Heidi came to me. She was somewhere that I couldn't quite place--a field of tall yellow grass on a glorious sunny afternoon. She was a younger Heidi, a Heidi with all four legs and all her energy and enthusiasm, and she was running free.

Was that picture just a wish, like the wished-for message on the answering machine? Or was it a gift, a message that Heidi is well, and on to her next adventure?





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