My Sadie

The only time I can recall ever being fond of dogs is during my childhood. Age seems to have turned me into a very neglectful dog owner, even though I've only ever actually considered one dog, Sadie, to be mine.

When I first met Sadie, I was four years old and had recently moved into a double-wide in the middle of the woods. The patch of trees behind my house seemed to be the size of a national forest, and I remember roaming through those ten acres like a Meriwether Lewis-William Clark hybrid on a sugar rush. I was determined to prove that my woods were full of treasures: old deer stands for climbing in, a little cottage made of candy, arrowheads left behind by native Americans. You might be surprised to know that a little red dog was my only worthwhile finding.

I thought she was a wild animal at first. I remember running from the depths of the woods as fast as I could to find my father who was innocently fixing his pickup-truck in our gravel driveway. It was most likely a Sunday afternoon.
"DADDY," I yelled, probably jumping up and down with tears of fear and excitement in my eyes, "DADDY, DADDY, DADDY! There is a fox in our yard! I think it's a fox!"

My father was not amused.

I remember him laying his manly DeWalt gadget down on the toolbox of his truck and reluctantly allowing me to take him to where I supposed the fox was. I made him walk over briers and scrape his balding head against the branches of trees that happened to be a bit shorter than him, but what are daddies for, right?

We eventually found my "fox."

She was red, skinny, quick, and short; who wouldn't make the same mistake as me? She was friendly, too, and a fan of Kraft American cheese. In spite of my father's disapproval, I was able to lure her to my front porch without many difficulties.

I knew keeping her would be impossible without the persuasion of my mother, so I closed the gate on my porch and waited for her as if it were Christmas eve and she was Santa Claus himself. Occasionally I slipped a slice of cheese out to my Sadie.

My father has been pointlessly fighting a battle for as long as I can remember -- one that involves my mother, my front porch, me, and a bunch of old strays. Sadie was one of the first. You see, my mother absolutely adores every little critter she gets her hands on, and they always love her back just as much. My porch seems to be the shelter of every animal in our neighborhood. Birds eat from the hanging feeders; little squirrels sit outside our screen door every winter and find what the birds left behind; three dogs, as of right now, all have their very own blankets in the corner. Sadie is one of them.

My dad always throws a fit, but he knows once my mama has been around an animal for longer than five minutes there's no taking it away from her. My house is now home to five cats for that very reason. I don't know why he even argues anymore, why he doesn't just post a sign outside our house declaring it the official animal shelter of Pinnacle, North Carolina. It really might as well be.

The point I'm trying to make is this: my father and I both knew very well that as soon as my mother returned home from bingo, the little red dog would be a part of the very elastically-sized Martin family.


I named her Stacy at first. I had a skipper doll named Stacy, one with a pink bicycle, and my distaste for the name "Tracy" is not a recent development. I hated my name even as a child, and I hoped naming my dog Stacy would be a way for me to live vicariously through her much in the way a mother wants to give her child everything she never got to have. I wanted to give my dog the name I'd always longed for.

The similar sounding names quickly got confusing, though, as you probably guessed. Sadie and I were explorers: we were always in the woods looking for arrowheads and candy cottages. Only, unlike Lewis and Clark, we had separate dinner times.

My dad would yell Tracy or Stacy, and from the depths of a forest, even for the ears of a dog, the "ACY" part is most distinguishable. We would both run wildly at the thought of food, and of course, one explorer was always left disappointed and hungry. My parents instructed me to think of a new name for her, and Sadie seemed to be the next best thing.

For as long as I remember, just like any good dog, my Sadie was always waiting for me after school. When I was a child she was the best part about coming home. Just as soon as I had my play-clothes on, it was time for us to make our daily rounds visiting our favorite trees and streams and pine-cones. I always felt so much safer having Sadie there with me. She would always walk with me in the woods, even last year when Hallie and I adventured into the woods, Sadie stayed with us the whole time.

As I grew older, the time I spent with her grew shorter. Sadie seemed unphased, though. Even yesterday she greeted me as soon as I climbed out of my father's car after arriving home from taking the SAT. Up until today, Sadie has been there for nearly all of my arrivals home. I sincerely believe she is best dog I've ever known.

The pear trees outside of my house have grown so large they now need to be trimmed. When we first moved here, my mother planted a row of bushes along the walls of our house, and last week I watched my father cut them down because they had finally gotten too big as well.
Just like the greenery, I, too, feel as if I am stuck inside of an era that's meant for growing. My books no longer fit on my bookshelf, I can make an A on a math test, and I no longer need my parent's help in order to be awake in time for school.

Sadie was a major part of my childhood, and it only makes sense for it to be time to say goodbye. I know my dog is much happier now, as cliche as it is. She no longer has to worry with hot spots or tumors or dry dog food.
I love Sadie very much.



" So dig up your bone, exhume your pine cone, my Sadie."