When I was three, in the first in a series of seemingly unplanned events I would grow to anticipate, I picked out Tara from the humane society. We thought Tara was around a year old, odds are she was closer to three or four. A German Shepherd, Corgi mix, Tara was unique, to say the least. She was my dog, my forever companion, my confidante, my protector, and my best friend with four legs.
Tara knew my soul.
Riley was the puppy my mom brought home, after being urged not to, and though I loved Riley, he was the dog I never wanted.
Riley's proud heritage began with a Border Collie mother who's favorite lookout was from the branches of a large tree in her front yard. We have no idea who his dad was. A Shepherd maybe? Where Tara followed me everywhere, Riley couldn't care less where I was or what I wanted him to do. What? Did you just call me? Um, actually I couldn't hear you...
Tara's dedication knew no bounds. If, at the playground, I climbed up the nearly vertical stairs to the slide, Tara was right there behind me. Something I'm told is all but impossible to teach dogs, much less ones with miniature legs. She dutifully guarded the front door of the neighbors house when I babysat. Walking home with me and Doc, guarding us from the silent night on our quiet street. She never spent the night in one place, preferring instead to take short naps in a rotation of locations: start in the upstairs hallway, as close to center as she could get from the three bedrooms. From there she moved to the landing on the stairs, my room, my brother's room, my parents' room, before returning to the hall to start the rotation again.
Riley slept wherever he happened to find himself tired and wasn't too bothered if someone came to the door. No amount of coaxing or treats could convince Riley to ride with us in the canoe. Tara got in because we were, Riley wanted his feet on stable ground. We called him Guy Smiley because his hound face made him look like as if he were perpetually smiling, making him always look so pleasant, even when he was blatantly defying you.
We never needed a fence with Tara. She knew where our yard began and ended and she never wanted to stray too far lest she miss an opportunity to protect the house or one of its occupants.
Riley was a wandering man. Even away in college I got calls from housewives who'd had my dog with them all day, He's been great, we baked cookies! Sure I got the occasional angry call to come pick up my dog, he's been wandering the neighborhood; but more often than not I would get a call from a woman who claimed that Riley had come to her door during a rain, or heat, or whatever adverse weather he'd invented, and begged to be let in. Once in, Riley would happily accept any treats and a nice spot to nap. When he was ready to be off again he would simply wait by the door. And if, after a few hours and a failed phone call to convince her husband they should keep this dog, he was still there, I would get a call asking where she could drop him off.
Riley was Sibling's dog. Two free spirits who had found one another.
So when I found myself dogless more than a year ago, the choice was simple: a short-legged rescue dog who was between the ages of one and three. I wanted my Tara back.
Unfortunately, I'm afraid I've accidentally acquired a Riley.
Her name is Gidget.
A Corgi, Australian Shepherd mix, she makes Tara look normal. She is, at first glance, a slight reincarnation of Tara. And yet she is also a healthy mix of Riley.
Gidge has Tara's body shape but less fur and different colors, well, that's if you don't count her massively large head.
Gidge is Lou's best friend. Always ready with a kiss and a smile, she's the dog that Lou can lean on, literally and figuratively. She is more than patient with children, specifically the ones pulling her ears and tail. She's down for a good old fashioned race, but she knows who brought her home and she doesn't want to stay away too long. She patrols the house and yard, the lethal combination of herding dog heritage makes it impossible for her to ignore any issue, even an imaginary one.
And in so many ways she is my Tara. She is my four legged nanny and the dog I want to snuggle when I'm happy, sad, confused, or otherwise overcome with emotion. She loves her mother and she wants nothing more than to see me smile. She guards my Collection because she knows that it is important to me, therefore it's important to her.
But she is also my Riley. My goofy dog I will never understand with her own idea of what needs to be done when.
Maybe Gidge is here to teach me a lesson about loving dogs for who they are. For loving the wanderer in them, their free spirit and departure from the term "mans best friend". For appreciating that the darling puppy they most surely were only loosely resembles the dog they have become. Gidge shows me how much I can love a dog that doesn't fit into my idea of what a dog should be.
In the way that Tara imparted her wisdom, Gidge has shared some of hers with me. I do have my Tara back.
She's just also a Riley.
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