In a week of hard things, one moment stands out: A small, squeaky ladybug toy falls from a box of dog paraphernalia I’m unloading at Goodwill.
The toy, slightly stiffened with saliva, looks almost new. That’s because Willie Mays, my parents’ little dog, cared more for people than toys.
Willie Mays was the runt of a Maltipoo litter, a handful of silky black poodle fur with wide Maltese eyes. My dad, who played baseball for the U.S. Naval Academy, named him after his hero and true baseball royalty.
I bought Willie from a sketchy operation in rural Alabama where the breeder casually mentioned that every trailer on the lot had a guy with a gun pointing at me. Which I wisely chose to wholeheartedly believe as I counted out the cash and took possession of the puppy on behalf of my parents.
At the time, it seemed ridiculous to assist my aging parents in the getting of a puppy to raise in their new retirement community. Lots of people offered catastrophic predictions and frankly, I was apprehensive. But my mother was hellbent and the heart wants what the heart wants.
As it turns out, from the moment they met him, Willie transformed my parents’ world, blossoming into the best boy and quickly becoming their favorite child.
Willie Mays
He ruled the roost. When he decided it was bedtime, it was as if Mary Poppins walked in clapping her hands, saying, “Chop-chop, time to wrap it up.” They dutifully followed him to the bedroom, even if they were in the middle of a show. His routines trumped theirs and he slept between them, an intact pack where he was clearly the alpha.
One of his endearing traits was to treat everyone as if they were the most important person in the room. Something rarely found in the human species, in my opinion.
When he focused on you, you were exalted, adored and your every emotion became a source of concern. Sad? He danced for you. Happy? He fetched a sock or pair of undies from your suitcase. Worried? He leaned his few pounds against your chest and reassured you.
He didn’t care too much for other dogs and was known to make large, impressive canines whimper with fear when he’d stomp his tiny foot, flash his dark eyes and let them know the king had arrived.
Carrying him in an oversized black purse, my mother took him to Mass, restaurants, doctor’s offices and all the places clearly marked off-limits to dogs. But to follow that rule, one would have to know he was a dog and neither Willie nor my parents believed he was anything other than a prince among princes.
When they made the hard decision to leave their independent-living home and move into a skilled and assisted living facility, Willie assumed the position of most adorable mascot. He strutted his stuff, allowing residents in wheelchairs to hold him, pet him and tell him what a good boy he was. He was born for adoration and took his new role as royalty very seriously. No resident was too feeble or too rambunctious in their affections to bother him. He reminded them of all the pets they had loved and lost, and I watched him listen intently while they told him stories of those that came before him.
When Willie started his sad decline, I thought I’d have time to make it down to Jacksonville before he took his last breath. Alas, he only had hours left and my mom stared into trusting eyes while the vet eased his way from this life to the next.
I try to avoid platitudes like telling them it will get easier with time. While it’s true the pain eases, great grief is the price of great love. Still, we wouldn’t have it any other way.
Now, perched on a corner of my desk is the rescued ladybug toy. I make her squeak every time I start and finish a story.
Oh Willie, you were the best boy, leader of the pack, prince among princes, and you are so very missed.
