Cooperative Living August 2016 - 42

Rural Living | by Margo Oxendine, Contributing Columnist
Adjusting to Life Without
Darling Little Brownie
I no longer have anyone who can lick the bowl or the plate. Or quickly take
care of that last piece of cheese or meat that won't fit on the sandwich.
I
t is difficult and depressing,
adjusting to life without my darling
Brownie.
This is the last time you will see
our cute photo topping this column.
I am sorry about that for several
reasons: It is a great pic of the two of
us, and especially of me. I don't take
good photos. But I loved this one. The
only one better was taken years ago, in
the bikini on the Harley. But I can't use
that one, so I must have a new one
taken, of me. Alone. I will try not to
look sad.
Sadness is a part of everyday life
now. I don't have my constant
companion, dogging my every step. I
often felt like a creature with six legs.
Seven, if you count the cane.
Some of you have told me how,
after you've lost your dear doggies, you
can still hear their little toes clicking
on the floor. I hear that. While
watching TV, I sometimes hear her
sighing in her chair next to mine. I
can't stop glancing down at her
placemat, wondering if there is enough
water in her dish. There is no dish.
One of the most difficult things is
going down the driveway to get the
paper and the mail. This was always
our special daily trek, her trailing
behind, sniffing along, then spotting
me and bounding forward, that lovely
smile on her cute little face. Oh, how I
miss that lush, always-wagging tail. I
don't walk down the driveway
anymore; I pick up the papers and
mail when I happen to drive by. It's
easier, but it's no fun at all.
I especially remember the day
we discovered the big pile of bear
" doo " in the driveway. We were both
so excited!
40 | Cooperative Living | July 2016
Funny, but now that Brownie's gone,
creatures have reappeared in my yard.
Not that she ever chased a rabbit, or
purposefully scared off any critter.
Now, I have two big bunnies who seem
fearless. I have countless chipmunks,
darting hither and yon. I have a
large deer who visits at
dusk, and in the bright
light of day, and
snacks on my
flowers in the
pots. I don't
really mind.
They're my
" pets " now; I
delight in spying
on them. I don't
think I'd even
mind spotting the
occasional bear
wandering across the
lawn. Provided I'm not out
there at the time.
I do not believe I will be getting
another dog. I think about it
occasionally. It's something folks have
urged me to do. But no. First, I've
already had the best dog anyone could
hope for: Brownie did not bark. She
loved other dogs, and certainly
enjoyed meeting people. Sure, she
wandered off - escaped, actually -
from time to time, but I always found
her at one of the places I knew she'd
be: At other people's houses, tail
wagging. She had a " boyfriend, "
Roscoe, who lives down the lane,
across busy Route 220. One morning,
after a long night of her ignoring my
pleading cries, I found her curled
up in bed with Roscoe. His owner
said, " I think we've got a romance
going on. "
I now hear Roscoe, a big beagle boy,
howling from time to time. I swear, I
think he's calling Brownie. I don't
begrudge him that piercing, pitiful howl.
I do it myself, occasionally.
Funny, but
now that Brownie's gone,
creatures have reappeared in
my yard. Not that she ever
chased a rabbit, or
purposefully scared off
any critter.
I've never been lonely a day in my
life. Until now. I had no idea
how much I'd miss my
little companion. Her
place beside my
desk, while I
work, is empty
now. There's no
sighing, no
groaning, no
little yips
while she
dreams.
I no longer
have anyone who
can lick the bowl or
the plate. Or quickly
take care of that last piece
of cheese or meat that won't fit
on the sandwich. I only fix one bowl of
ice cream, not two. I don't bring home
the extra bacon from my restaurant
breakfast, wrapped in a greasy napkin,
knowing that it will be snarfed up in
moments, with a tail wagging happily.
That's it: There's no more " happy "
around the house. I have a sticker on
my back door. It states: " Wag more.
Bark less. " There never was any barking.
But there sure was a lot of wagging
going on. Sigh.
Thanks very much for your kind,
heartfelt notes of sympathy. They mean
a lot to me. Just like Brownie did. 
To order Margo Oxendine's A Party
of One, email recorder@ htcnet.org,
or call 540-468-2147 Monday-Thursday
from 9-5.
www.co-opliving.com
http://www.co-opliving.com
Cooperative Living August 2016

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