It was last October when we spotted the add on a trading website, "Toby, retriever cross, 1 yr old" and there was a picture of a sweet face with ears back, shy of the camera. When we rolled up to the hobby farm, we were greeted by a boiling mess of fur, paws and slobber. We counted not less than 7 noses and 27 feet but, since one dog turned out to be named Lucky, the math is actually accurate if a bit cliched. From out this seething horde shot a muddy orange torpedo which proceeded to pin ball it's way off three fences, the barn, a goat, two cows, a chicken coop and a hay bale before stopping to roll in a cow pat.
We were told he was "about a year old" and from a good home that could no longer keep up to his "special needs". Guesses were made about his breed but the best information placed him at a mix of Golden Retriever, Rhodesian Ridgeback and Atomic Weapon.
"Great with cats," we were told, as he chased two up a tree. "Easy going around other dogs," we were assured, as he catapulted over a horse jump and landed directly on top of a snoozing canine. "Loves to explore," as he disappeared into the distance, "and to swim," when he returned soaking wet and trailing duck weed.
Standing in the middle of the chaos, watching chicken feathers drift to the ground, Husband looked at me with that big beautiful smile of his and said "He's perfect."
I watched Husband watch this insane orange dog wreak havoc in the farm yard with big tears in my eyes. I knew he was looking 16 years into the past and seeing a yellower, goofier puppy, coated in mud and chasing chickens. And I knew that this bullet of a canine would never replace him but would go some distance towards healing the big sadness in our hearts left behind when JD's footsteps disappeared from our lives.
"You're right, honey," as we loaded the squirming puppy into the van and watched him shake mud and straw all over the inside, "he's perfect."
