Who's a Good Girl?

Briley was a rescue dog. A German Shepherd-Doberman mix, I found on a Friday at rush hour trying to cross Briley Parkway, the six-lane, speed demon’s wet dream, that stands between the Nations and Charlotte Park. It was more than a few years ago, back before the “flyover” section above the Parkway was constructed, when you could get to the airport in 15 minutes, no matter your location or the time of day.

I’d left my house a few moments before and was easing down Urbandale Ave. when I saw her on my right, trotting down the slim-to-none strip of concrete that served as a sidewalk, heading for God-knows-where. The endless smile on her big, goofy face was infectious. Now that’s the epitome of happiness! I said through a grin of my own, returning my attention to the traffic, which had slowed to a crawl.

The prancing puppy, however, was doing anything but crawling, and as she headed for the dangerous intersection of Urbandale and Briley, she began veering in and out of the street, peering expectantly at the windows of the cars in front of me as if she were looking for someone.

The light changed then, and as traffic began to move, the adorable canine bounded out of the way, retreating to a small patch of grass, looking unsure of her next move. I was anything but unsure. Making a sharp left turn in front of on-coming traffic, I pulled into the deserted remains of a once-lively gas station that lay squarely across the street, and slamming on my brakes, jumped out of the car and ran back towards the road. “Sit, puppy!” I shouted over the roar of a mid-sized sedan as it sped past. And sit she did, all the while grinning in my direction as if she’d been waiting for this moment her entire life.

Dodging the perilous traffic that streamed in both directions, I finally reached the waiting bundle of fur and scooped her up in my arms as if she weighed nothing. Actually, the dog weighed 40 pounds, but I was overcome with the kind of superhuman strength reserved for mothers who pull cars off their injured children or a woman who can rise from her bed and stand after successfully zipping herself into a pair of jeans a size too small.

Once I had deposited her in the passenger seat, I slid behind the wheel and took her measure. She couldn’t have been more than four months old, and from the size of her beefy paws, I figured she’d eventually weigh in at 100 pounds. My biggest hope was that she’d grow into her ears, which were impossibly long and floppy. Her endless brown eyes stared into mine as if she knew who I was, like we were the oldest of friends, reuniting after years spent apart, and I knew she was meant to be mine.

For obvious reasons, I named her Briley, and she and I spent the next ten years together as we welcomed another puppy into our family and said goodbye to the matriarch of the pack. I underestimated her growth potential; two years later, she weighed in at a lean, mean 110 pounds. And even though she looked to anyone on the outside like a force to be reckoned with, (an unsavory guy from the neighborhood used to snarl as he walked by, “You have the meanest dog in town!”), she was a sweet, cuddly girl who finally did grow into her ears and dearly loved to have them scratched.

Briley’s death was unexpected and quick. Only 16 hours from the first signs of distress to her last breath, her fur still held the scent of the ocean when I buried my face against her neck and told her how much I adored her. “I love you the most with tea and toast,” I whispered through a flood of gritty tears. And I begged her to come back to me as a future dog, but perhaps in a smaller body.

Lately, my darling dog has appeared in my dreams, looking young and energetic as she was when she was here with me. She lopes and runs through a grassy field, her floppy ears pitching back and forth as they catch the breeze. She looks up at me with that big, toothy grin, and my heart fills with gladness. These dreams seem so real that when I wake up, I’m certain we were together again, and I hold onto the cobweb of that feeling as I head out on the same morning walk that once began all of our days together.

I’m grateful for the years I had with Briley, although, truth be told, I’d give anything to have more. Every time I turn onto the Parkway that bears her name I think about that long-nosed, black-and-tan pup that I rescued on a random Friday from the clutches of dangerous traffic, and I grin from ear to ear.