Our beloved dog had recently passed. The house felt lonely without four paws running around the dining room. The kids begged for another dog, so when a good friend was in searching for a dog, I rode along.

             We visited many shelters in the local area. She found a rottweiler that interested her. Nothing sparked my interest until we saw a female with three tiny puppies, brown, black and white. She said they were Border Collie mixed with something that gave them curled tails.

            We put in a request for the one brown one. I didn’t really want a male, disliking the way they have to pee on everything, but there was something about this tiny puppy that tore at my heartstrings.

            The pound confirmed that we were first on the list, so most likely we’d get the dog.

            My kids were so excited, that we returned to the pound, day after day, to sit outside the cage. We decided to name him MacTavish.

            Because the puppies had yet to be weaned, we had to wait and wait. We were also told their history. A neighbor had phoned in, complaining about whining coming from the house next door. The officers discovered that the house was empty, but they could see moving shadows inside.

            Police knocked down the door.

            The female (yes, the proper term in bitch, but it sounds offensive to me) was tied to a banister. At her feet were five tiny puppies. The SPCA didn’t know there were puppies as all they saw were moving mounds, collapsed on the floor.

            Yes, they were covered in fleas! So dense that no visible signs of life could be seen.

            One of the pups was dead, the others barely clinging to life since the female was unable to nurse them due to a lack of food and water.

            The Animal Officers fed the mom, gave her water, then relocated them all to the shelter.

            It isn’t recommended to use flea treatment on such young dogs, but there was no other safe way to rid them of the pests.

            Another pup had died before we arrived. Three were walking, but weakly.

            None could be adopted until they were stronger.

            Meanwhile we bought toys and constructed a small fenced-in area in the backyard.

            When we finally brought Mac home, we were excited, but at the same time nervous as neither my husband nor I had ever held such a tiny pup.

            Mac couldn’t walk. His legs gave out, not due to disability, but due to being malnourished. We gave him puppy food, but he couldn’t eat it. Or maybe he refused, but the outcome was the same.

            My friend came to the rescue! She had me buy oatmeal, honey, and other things to construct a watery gruel. She sent me to the dentist to beg for syringes. (They didn’t want to give them to me at first. Once I explained what they were for, they gave me several.)

            Time worked miracles. And prayer. And lots of attention. Mac grew stronger, but not bigger. His body needed to recover before his legs could get longer.

            Mac lived a good, long life. He wasn’t the smartest dog we’d had, but perhaps the most fun. Shouting “squirrel” had him begging to get outside. He’d charge the plum tree, barking all the way. The squirrels would move just out of his reach and chitter at him until Mac gave up.

            My husband built a shed at the far end of the yard. He’d call, “To the shed,” and Mac would bound, like an antelope, to the shed door. He’d wait for my husband to arrive, tail wagging, eyes bright.

            Like many Border Collies, he was quirky. Normally we’d feed our dogs in the kitchen, on a special mat. That wasn’t okay with Mac. Sometimes he’d want to eat by the sliding glass door. Sometimes in front of the stove or the birdcage.

            I’d carry his bowl around the house, setting it down in different places until I found the right one.

            We tried obedience training with him. He got kicked out when he refused to stay until called.

            He didn’t understand how walking on a leash worked until I got a choke chain. I didn’t like using it, but it taught him to stay calm and walk by my side. Eventually I was able to use a soft collar and harness.

            Mac thought he was a tiny dog. Despite growing to over forty pounds, in his mind he was a lapdog. It was hilarious. With Mac in my lap, I couldn’t see the TV.

            We used to let him sleep in the garage, with the side door open. That worked fine during the day when we were at work and at school, but not at night.

            When the moon was full, Mac howled and howled. I’d lock him in the garage. Then he discovered that he could move the fence boards, allowing him to escape. I’d find him sleeping on the front porch in the morning.

            My husband and I nailed boards in place, one after another as Mac found new boards to move. When he had no way to escape, Mac chewed the boards until he’d made holed big enough to pass through.

            I worried about splinters in his mouth. I couldn’t sleep. I’d stay awake, listening for sounds of chewing. In the morning, I couldn’t function, made errors at work, got sleepy teaching my classes.

            We locked him in the garage at night. I kept him safe, allowed me to sleep.

            My husband retired when Mac still had enough energy to bound into the backyard. They became best buddies. Everywhere my husband went, Mac was with him. Until his muzzle turned gray and his joints ached.

            When it hurt so bad that Mac struggled to potty outside, we made the difficult decision to end his life. Neither of us could watch an animal suffer just to please ourselves.

            Saying goodbye was one of the hardest things I’d done. There’d been other dogs, other cats, but none of them bonded with us like Mac had.

            It’s been many year since Mac was alive, but he lives on in our hearts and minds.