B.J.'S EYES

The loss of the old chihuahua was almost more than I could bear. She was the first dog that had ever been "mine" - not shared with my sister or other members of the family - but mine, alone. Through high school, college, my first teaching job on the plains of West Texas, and graduate school, she was my best friend. She was quite well-traveled, accompanying me in my travels across Texas as a state employee.

At the age of fifteen, ancient in dog years, her last move with me was to the Metroplex. Six months later, on a cold December Sunday, this faithful, fragile, tired companion left me. I felt I could never replace her.

That same Sunday, as if by fate, I read a newspaper advertisement about a "Half-Price Sale" on Christmas adoptions at the Tarrant County Humane Society. Although I was still grieving, my thrifty-self responded immediately! On my first visit to the Humane Society, I didn't "connect" with any of the dogs, but on my second, a pair of huge brown eyes met mine, and I was hooked! I was told she was a mutt -- her mother may have been a sheltie, and her father was a travelin' man. She was a tiny ball of red fur, with two liquid orbs that captured everyone who met her.

That Christmas, my four-year-old nephew named this wiggly creature "Wyndy Byjynsky", after his girlfriend. I decided to call her "B.J.". A friend who is also called B.J. thinks she was named for him. I have always idolized the late Barbara Jordan. Take your pick. Not many dogs (or people, for that matter), can claim an assortment of name-reasons.

Over the years, this "perpetual puppy" amazed new acquaintances who, deceived by her looks and her actions, always guessed her to be much younger than her years. She was a "mama's girl", and played her various roles in the family with precision and expertise. When she and I lost our twelve-year-old Norwegian Elkhound ten years later, we grieved for days. When we soon after took in a stray puppy already five times her size, it took B.J. only days to share her doghouse, her dish, and me. All of a sudden, I had two pups again!

When the Humane Society sold posters a few years back, the poster-dog could have been my B.J. I had to have that poster! Imagine my excitement when I discovered that the poster advertised in black and white was actually B.J.-colored. It occupies a special place in my office, situated so that everyone who enters can compare the poster with B.J.'s picture. Most people marvel at the fact that MY dog was the model. I continue to fuel that myth!

B.J. spent almost twelve years making me laugh. She sensed my moods and comforted me when I was down. Once again, I had a four-legged confidant. I always teased my friends that their pets were spoiled rotten, but I alway ended with, "that's the only way to have one!"

When B.J. began to cough, I just figured the humid weather was affecting her like it did all of us humans. The vet, however, gave me the bad news: my precious friend had congestive heart failure. She began taking the same medications as her "grandfather" (my father-in-law), and even as her life began to ebb away, her illness forged a special relationship with a quiet man cursing the ravages of age on his body.

Decisions which affect the lives of others are difficult indeed. I knew I must soon face the decision of merciful death for my pet. From the beginning, the vet had told me that the medications and the special diet could only prolong her life for a short while. I could not let her suffer, but could I face those questioning eyes, holding her until she feel into an endless sleep? I listened to her breathe through the wee hours of the morning; I watched her constantly for signs of pain; I held her like a baby for hours on end; I found it hard to let her out of my sight. I was obsessed with this little red dog who had captured my heart with her eyes so many years before.

As if sensing my pain, B.J. let go of this life, sparing me the torment of the decision.

Time has passed, but the memories of my special pal have not faded. I still see her in her favorite places, and hear her bark in the night. She is often in my dreams - so real that I am breathless on awakening. If there is such a thing as a doggy-Heaven, I think she made it, and I have no doubt that those chocolate-syrup eyes are watching everything I do!

I gave myself a $15 present that Christmas of '78, and the investment returned dividends untold. For unconditional love, for quiet companionship, for teaching me as much as I taught you: thank you, B.J., for being there when I needed you.