By Scott Shephard

Polly (seen here as a puppy) is the only dog our family has ever had. Aside from the fact that she was mortal, she was perfect. And whenever I see a picture of her, I think of the saying, “We should try to be the kind of person our dogs think we are.” She certainly had fewer flaws than I.

Deb was reading from her journal last night about the time I was getting ready for a sailing trip, left the truck door open to get a load of provisions and returned to find Polly sitting in the passenger seat. She looked at me as if to say, “I’m ready. Let’s go!” The thing is that she wasn’t invited. After taking her a couple of times, I learned that she liked sailing less than she liked prowling the shoreline and the prairie above. She was not bred for boats and I was worried she would jump off while I was under sail and I wouldn’t be able to retrieve her. Polly was a profoundly obedient animal but on the occasion Deb read about, we had to fight her to get her out of the truck.

That said, you should know that Polly loved going for rides. She also loved snow and running through piles of leaves. And she loved almost everyone - except for the UPS man, who surprised her one day as she was sleeping on the back step of our garage. After that, every time she saw the brown truck going up our street, she barked at it.

Polly died 17 years ago and I still miss her when I run across photos like this. Her collar hangs in my closet and I think of her every time I open the door. It’s more than a little irrational that long dead pets can cause such maudlin sentiments to well up, isn’t it?