Ode to Rusty

My heart sank the morning Cameron, our neighbor, carried Rusty out of his house and gently lifted the old dog into the bed of his pickup. I just knew.

When Cameron came home, Rusty wasn't with him. I cried.

Cameron moved next door a few years back. Rusty came with him. For awhile we knew Rusty better than Cameron. If we were in the back yard, Rusty would talk to us through the fence and leap -- bounce, really -- in joyous celebration. The ground could have been a trampoline, for with each bounce Rusty would inch a little higher, his speckled ears flopping on the downward cycle.

Whenever one of us spent a little time in the back yard, we could count on Rusty's company. If we spoke, he spoke back. If our little yapper dog howled at his master's urging, Rusty's sonorous voice replied. Rusty was later joined by Katie, a Doberman pinscher replete with energy and personality plus, and Rocky, a high-pitched miniature Dobie. It was Rusty, though, who stole our hearts.

A German short-haired pointer, he was a faithful companion to Cameron on his bird-hunting excursions. On many a sweltering dove-season morning Rusty and Cameron would hop into the pickup and head out to the fields before dawn. They'd come back dusty, sweaty and pleased with their morning's work.

But not anymore. Crippled with age, Rusty had to be put down. For now that side of the fence is silent. No talking. No howling. Definitely no bouncing.

But maybe not for long.

Cameron parked his pickup in front of the house a couple of weeks ago and carried out a little guy, eyes the same greenish-gold as Rusty's, floppy ears speckled with brown and white.

His name is Tim. He's already part of our family, even if he does live next door.