Yes, I know. Writing about a dog does carry a risk. You take the chance that some people might think you're out there if you do. Too bad.Anyone who thinks it's out there, over there, under there, on top of there, isn't anyone I'd really care to call a pal. If you've never loved a dog, you might want to consider opening your heart and giving it a try. It's very good for you.
Let me tell you about Emma.
Emma was the first dog Carol and I adopted back in the early '90s. We rescued her from The SPCA of Luzerne County, never imagining that someday, somehow, I'd take up space myself in that same building.
Emma was a stray, found running the streets of Pittston. Clearly, she'd been tossed, abandoned, left to fight her way in what could have been a very short life. She was less than a year old when we found her sadly cowering in a corner of a cage in what was then the shelter's only kennel.
While I was wandering around, Carol found "our dog." Carol wasn't shy about telling me that this little white creature all covered in flea bites was "our dog." I took one look. That was it. Carol was right, this was "our dog."
My first memory of Emma, after we took her from the shelter, is of her soiling her crate on the ride home, and me hosing it out in the backyard. Whether she was scared, or maybe even just thrilled to be going somewhere with someone, who knows. What we did know immediately was that Emma was a marvelous dog.
Loving, affectionate, loyal, forever in my lap, Emma was just a nice, nice dog. She loved me. I loved her. Carol loved her, too.
The photo pre-dates my digital days. This particular image was taken with a TLR - a twin-lens reflex camera. Great camera, outrageously sharp negatives, allowing the creation of equally as sharp prints with colors that jump right out at you. That particular TLR necessitated using a hand-held light meter, then setting aperture and shutter speed. It's an old scan, I can't find the original. The film was Fuji Velvia, a color slide film, once the standard of the professional photography community. Those days are over. Digital has wounded film and film cameras beyond any possible recovery. I never fought digital. If there was a revolution, it was pretty obvious to me that digital would win. It did.
The name Emma is a story maybe worth telling itself.
A friend of ours had this cat he wanted us to take. We were ready. The cat's name was...Emma. Emma The Cat wanted no part of leaving our friend's house. Trying to find Emma, he got nowhere, at least for a half hour or so. Then he found her. She wasn't happy; he was bloodied enough to prove it. Emma The Cat never did go home with us. Not because we weren't thrilled to have her, but because she simply wouldn't budge without a fight. Our cat-giving friend, seeing this was a bad situation, put giving Emma away on hold. Meantime, this little dog came into our life.
There was no sense even considering another name. This dog had to be Emma, named after Emma The Cat, the cat we never brought home.
The setting is Frances Slocum State Park. That was Emma's favorite place. It was easy to tell it was. The second she got out of the car, that "show dog" tail of hers went wild. Then the second her paws hit grass, her joy took on another dimension. Emma would poop and pee a dozen times within a half hour, something she did nowhere else. Yes, we cleaned up after her. The poop, not the pee. Have we figured a way to do that yet?
Now, about that "show dog" tail of Emma's. It was anything but. She was a cutie, a sweetie, one lovable dog, and she was a pretty girl. All that being true, it's also true to say that Emma had some odd fur configurations upon her small body. She was a mutt, a pound hound, she was loved.
I'm going on and on here. It's by design. I'm stalling. All good stories have a beginning, a middle, and an end. I really don't much feel like telling you that Emma is no more. She lived a long and happy life with us, roughly seventeen years, and she was treated like a princess through them all. In the end, Emma gave us the greatest gift a dog can give. In the end, Emma made the final act of unconditional love. Emma spared us any painful decisions. Emma died peacefully in Carol's arms, at home, in our bed. That was over two years ago. Still, it doesn't take much to get us weepy about Emma.
We sure loved our Emma.
