The best corgi ever was Stanley. His middle name was Borris, but I’m not sure dogs know their middle names. Stanley passed from this life only yesterday. He was about thirteen years old, but we don’t know for sure. We never knew Stanley as a puppy.
Stanley was a foundling, until he was found by our other beautiful dog, Rozzy (Rozaline Rosalea, actually). Before the problem was amended, Our Roz would take herself for walks, usually by way of jumping the fence (now much higher), which was the cause of much anguish. One day Our Roz came home with a skinny, dirty, smelly friend. Her friend was nervous but friendly. He was obviously hungry, and so we gave him some food. An obviously pure-bred corgi, we were certain someone would be missing him very much. We cleaned him up, took him to be checked out by the vet and set about finding his family in every way possible.
One week, two weeks, three weeks. Nobody claimed this beautiful animal, and so he became our companion, our family.
I haven’t met many corgis; just the one, actually. So how do I know he’s the best corgi ever? Well, the facts are simple:
- When he wagged his tail, he wagged his body in the opposite direction, to make sure you could see the wagging. He knew he didn’t have much tail.
- When you threw a toy for him, he would only bring it 3/4 of the way back. He would throw it the rest of the way, so he could get a head start on the next run.
- He knew each of our cats by name and would round them up to help bring them inside at night, only collecting the appropriate cat (I promise the cats were fine with this. They loved him too).
- He’s mine, and I’m his. Always present tense.
My eyes remember his happy face.
My fingers remember being completely hidden in his big, thick mane. When I think of him, my fingers tingle.
My arms remember brushing him for hours and still pulling loose hair off him, until the dog and the pile were about the same size.
My body remembers running and playing with him, rolling about with him like a dog would.
My face remembers being pressed against his sleeping chest, to hear him breathe and hear his heartbeat.
My brain remembers knowing I’m safe from anything and everything if he is near me.
My heart remembers comfort and sympathetic eyes when I am sad, someone to talk to who will not judge and him lying outside my bedroom door all night because it was the closest he could get to me (I couldn’t have him in my bedroom, due to the nature of the set up. He would have been locked in and he only had a tiny bladder…)
I have loved a lot of dogs; some mine, some of family, some of friends. I can’t honestly say I’ve loved any of these dogs more than any of the others, but always differently to each other, as they are very different people (yes, people!). I can say there was never a Stanley before, and there will never be a Stanley again.
I love you, Stanley.
I send love to each heart of each eye to read these words. Thank you for sitting with me for a while as I cry and remember.
The Pretty Kitty.