I was across town in the summer of 1993, near my mother's place and suddenly decided to clean my car. I pulled into a semi-automated wash, where you dump in your quarters and it supplies the suds and water while you pitch in the elbow grease. 

 

The car was washed and waxed and as I looked up from my floormats, motion caught my eye beyond the fence. This mostly white and chestnut dog of medium size stood wagging her lush tail furiously, tongue lolling and ducking her head passively. The corners of her mouth stretched up into a smile and she seemed eager for contact. 

 

I spoke in soft tones, put the vacuum hose down and walked around the fence. She rolled onto her back, offering her pink underside. There was no hysterectomy scar and no sign of once-swollen teats. She was young.  

 

She soaked in my attention. As I returned to the car, I noticed her watching me then easing her way back into the tall grass above the creek beside the car wash. I walked around again and found her bed, a round spot where she likely had slept the night before.

 

The decision came that quickly. This dog needed a home.  

 

 

In the backyard, 1999. 

 

The name Lakota jumped into my head. I was then reading Robert Utley's biography of Sitting Bull entitled "The Lance and The Shield." The chief was a member of the Sioux tribe whose word for themselves was "Lakota," a translation of "ally" or "friend." Her coloring, size and shape reminded me of dogs I had seen in historic photos of the tribes.  

 

At first she was scared of the car, the television, the stereo, my guitar. It was obvious she had not been fully received into a house before. Time passed and she learned the ropes: not to chase cars, not to chew on the furniture, not to nip when she wanted your attention. 

 

It was obvious from her athleticism, energy, smarts and physical traits that she had collie in her lineage along with something else, seemingly spitz. Her coat was amazing in its plushness. The veterinarian always smiled and remarked when touching her, "She's so soft! She feels like a rabbit." 

She didn't grow too much more and we surmised she was about eight months old when I found her, too old to fill out and too young to have been in heat. 

 

She was a happy dog who loved people and never met strangers. Smart as a whip, she was good at working her way through problems and using the most minute of clues to decipher what was happening next. She knew different toys by their specific names, retrieving the one mentioned from her box of goodies when asked. When in the car, she would eye the key in my hand and as soon as it clicked into the ignition switch, she would start watching for my feet to work the clutch and accelerator. We used the word "outside" to indicate, well, what it means. She would go bananas at its mention, regardless of the context. We started spelling it so she wouldn't get hyper when we weren't intending to walk her, but after a while, she learned what "O-U-T-S-I-D-E" meant as well. 

 

 

This was after my then-girlfriend and I returned from a two-week vacation to the West Coast. She was as jubilant as I've ever seen her when we returned.  

 

 

She once tried to dig her way through drywall to get out and follow me to work. When she discovered the upstairs neighbor's tabby cat Abraham, she befriended him and would spend countless hours trying to get him to chase her around the backyard and parking lot, eager for a game of tag. 

 

Some time later, she stayed with friends for a weekend while I was out of town. A pair of their cats weren't as easy going. The wife of the couple came into the kitchen and found Lakota cornered with the cats stalking her.

 

From then on, Lakota's attitude about cats changed. She took the "chase first before they hurt you" approach. Once bitten, twice shy. 

 

 

We moved to an estate outside of town one spring, only for a few months but long enough for her to discover the joy of romping through fields and chasing rabbits. My roommate tried to give me an ultimatum about Lakota's access to the house and my bedroom, so we moved out. 

 

Back in town, I had to leave her with my mother for the summer due to living arrangements. I still remember the day Mom was able to first bring her by our new home and the absolutely indescribable joy on her face as she saw me at the top of the stairs and flowed at breakneck speed toward me. 

 

 

 

 

 

She often acted as if she didn't like our cats, but we would frequently "bust her" being chummy with them.   

 

 

 

 

She later let me know the woman I had just started seeing was "a keeper," barking in wild ecstasy when she heard this new girlfriend's car pull up to the house after meeting her only two times. I followed Lakota's advice and married her. 

 

She was equally at home on the trail or on the sofa, content with being beside us.  

 

For a few months, I took Lakota to work with me when I worked at a public radio station. It didn't take her long to memorize the route, growing more excited the closer we drew until she was about ready to jump out of the car as we made the last two turns and vigorously pulling the leash to get inside. 

 

 

The program director went so far as to make Lakota a neckerchief with the station logo on it, something Lakota came to expect whenever we left the house in the morning. 

 

 

 

Lakota left us on Sept. 23, 2007. I've scarcely known a friend that taught me as much about unconditional love or loyalty as she did. We miss her and love her still and are supremely grateful for her being in our lives. As one buddy always told me, "She was a once-in-a-lifetime-dog," and there's little else need added to that. 

 

Thanks Lakota.

Love,

Mom and Dad