Ode to Sparky, Our Family Dog

Some college students may think that one of the main reasons for learning to write is to pass the next required essay assignment. Yet others will reflect on the purpose of writing as being a therapeutic activity which helps to ease the pain of an event. The author of this ode found comfort in recording some of the most pleasant events of a beloved pet’s life. If only the deceased could hear us…

By Dean Marianne Zipf

Sparky, it is befitting that I mournfully reflect on the anniversary of your passing, my beautiful bichon frise. You, no doubt, are in a place reserved for those better than humans. Your cousin, Maxi, a beloved chocolate Labrador, who left us one day sooner, gave her paw to greet you--she lifted you to that beautiful place where there is no pain and suffering. Sparky, we miss you, but the time had come for you to leave us after being here for ninety-one dog years. Thank you for waiting to say your good byes to us, your family.

Our friend, my companion, Sparky, you were always there. You stayed at my bed side when I was down and out with my broken ankle covered by that big, white, stiff cast. You didn’t leave me except to check a door bell. You were the protector of the house. When I started to walk again, you were at my side that very first walk down the block –I trusted you not to pull me and you didn’t. You sensed my pain. We could look into each others eyes, and I always knew what you were thinking, but you could read my mind as well. Understanding English was absolutely no problem for you.

Let’s talk about your puppy days. Well, your first vacation was spent with your human grandparents and you went to dinner—you were just another guest enjoying food and friends at an outdoor bistro by the sea. You ate clams and oysters which weren’t exactly on your diet. People came up to your table and wanted to know what kind of dog you were. We were a little doubtful that you really were a bichon because you kept loosing hair and weren’t supposed to shed. But one day, an experienced fisherman—whose mother bred bichons for years-- confirmed that you most definitely were a bichon.

On hot summer days, we had endless fun seeing you swim in deep water with your life jacket strapped around your rather robust belly. You gratefully went for rides in a little rowboat, and loved the wind to blow on your face. The West wind smelled especially good to you. We could only think that the western scents reminded you of your ancestral roots—Idaho and Montana.

And then there was dress-up time. Your surrogate brothers and sister loved to dress you up. One day they put sunglasses and superman underwear on you and rolled you around in the toy baby stroller. You liked the rides! What a puppy you were! You toilet trained right away because you were so smart. Of course, there were some bad things you learned. You weren’t perfect but you were a perfect beggar. Food was your downfall. You started out at 8 lbs. You were supposed to go to a max of 15, but you loved eating. You hovered around 25 lbs, but gained an extra 5 lbs toward the end of your life.

Sparky, Dean Marianne Zipf’s beautiful white dog (l.), is the subject of her essay.

One day when you were a puppy I really got fed up with you. You kept running out of the house to the point that I thought maybe you didn’t want to live with us. Once you were gone for more than 45 minutes. When I finally found you barking at a fence in an old lady’s backyard –I knew you really loved us-- because you were so scared and grateful to be back in the house. That was the last time you ever ran away.

All along the way through life, everyone who knew you—even the people you stayed with while we were away on holiday-- said that you were an exceptional dog with an exceptional personality. For example, Lyn said, “You were the only dog that didn’t pee on her Christmas tree!” The Gurbers said, “You were the most well adjusted dog they ever minded. No hang-ups!”

You smiled a lot---you were a happy dog. When Jenny, your sister canine, joined the family, you were shocked! At first, quite sad—but, you adjusted and actually liked the company. Jenny misses you. She looked for you in the backyard for days and she lost her appetite for quite some time. Once when we were shopping, she saw a white dog on the street and got all excited thinking it was you; but, as the dog got closer and Jenny sniffed the air, her body just went limp when it wasn’t your scent. Jenny is now interested in “Poochie,” a little white dog down the street. I really think he reminds her of you.

You enjoyed as much of life as you could. Going for walks-- even near the end—you surprised me and took a long walk around the neighborhood. You knew, not us, that it was going to be your last time to see and sniff all of you familiar sites.

It was a beautiful summer night--you waited for me to get home from work and we, your family, were together. You wanted to say, “Goodbye” to the family you loved so much. Using your last bit of energy, you collapsed in our arms—we all wailed in unison with grief. I had never seen anyone die before –but you went peacefully and just stopped breathing.

Well, my friend, you will always be our first family dog. Your ashes are home with us, and our memory of you is marked by a granite tombstone. But more comforting than a physical memento is the written word. Even if age robs us of our memories, we can turn to the written word and read your story again and again to relive the joy of you.

Love,

Mom