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It was a lazy Sunday. We had been at the desert retreat. We had bought it and happily named it the Roads End Ranch. It is west of Phoenix, Arizona. The location was so remote. Cattle still stirred throughout the desert region. They crossed the roadways undeterred by speeding cars. These cars carried new homeowners to neighborhoods built further out of the city. Occasionally, you would see a dead cow with all fours extending straight up. It had fallen victim to a collision with someone from the big town. They were speeding over a hill at night. When we first moved to the Roads End, we brought our fearless terrier, “Buddie.” We built him a castle of a doghouse. It had access to an airconditioned tool building. He was all of ten pounds and fattened on hotdogs. He loved them and would fight the biggest opponent before him and win to get his. Earlier in the summer, Buddy appeared sluggish and started drooping.

We thought he had been caught out in the heat. He had refused to take shelter in the tool shed. Instead, he wanted to fight with a ground squirrel that terrorized him daily. But the more we checked on him, the worse he got. We rushed him to a veterinarian, and testing began. They were baffled for two days. They not conclude what was wrong with this terror of the UPS driver. The little black attack dog would hide behind his favorite bush. He watched the driver unload the truck. Then he would rush up to the fence. He raised Cain with a bark so fierce. It startled the driver every time. Buddie was in trouble. Finally, a phone call came. The Vet’s office tech informed us about Buddie’s test results. The results confirmed he had advanced Valley Fever. It can be deadly if not caught in time, and they were sorry. It had been due to the delay in returning test results. We met a few hours later at the Veterinary Office. We said our goodbyes to Buddie. He slowly went to sleep. We brought him home to the Roads End Ranch. We buried him in his favorite corner. This was the one he liked to catch the UPS man. After his passing, we were finished with the idea of having more pals. Losing him had just been too hard. Besides, we were taking care of Steve’s mother, and she was entering hospice and taking up all of our time. It was all we do to her.

We took the best care of Steve’s mother, keeping her in our home through many ups and downs. Then, in June, she passed early one Sunday morning. It was quiet. Nothing was moving, not even our cat. It had been over a year since losing Buddie. And, now we were experiencing loss again. A month of memorials seemed to take place. We remembered her in Arizona. Then, we returned to Oklahoma to lay her to rest.

Then, we came home. The house was empty. It was just the two of us and the cat, Blanche, a spade female, Siamese. We had brought her with us from the move when we left Wichita, Kansas following 9/11, nearly six years earlier. She only became vocal when something got on her nerves or when I talked to her. She would talk back to Steve if he yelled at her, they had a relationship like that. 

A few months passed, and Steve suggested we drive to the South Phoenix animal shelter and look at dogs. He said we didn’t want to get one—just look to get out of the house. So we left. When arriving, we walked through the outdoor kennel area. There were so many dogs, all barking for attention—except for one. He was a hound dog. He looked pitiful. It was like he had lost his last best friend. He was moping over in a corner of his kennel. He was not excited to see anyone. Yet, he came to us. Steve asked if we take him for a walk, and the attendants provided a lead. The hound strolled around with us for ten minutes. He did not seem more excited than Eeyore from Winnie The Pooh.

We leave the Roads End Ranch. During our walk with this dog, we decide to adopt an 80-pound, six-month-old American Fox Hound. We get him to our car and load him into the backseat. As both of us sit down up front, his head appears between the seats. He looks at the two of us. I asked Steve what are we calling him? We were listening to a song by an artist named Shooter Jennings, whom we both enjoyed. So, our dog found himself named Shooter at that point. We only put a little thought into it.  

Shooter grew into a 120-pound dog, the most loyal hound a person ever asked for. He never made a mistake or mess in the house. He always strives to please us. His life was one of loyalty. He was a big scaredy-cat but the most excellent protector. He hated thunderstorms. He would only go out in the rain if you went with him. You had to hold an umbrella over him while he did his business. He’d keep it and refuse to go outside if you didn’t offer to take the umbrella. If you had a big juicy bone, you lay a towel down on the floor. Tell him to keep it on the towel. Not a piece of the bone would hit any other part of the floor. He stayed put. He was the perfect boy. He loved other people. Too much sometimes. Steve often accidentally tripped our home alarm. The local police department would arrive. That is when you realize naming your dog Shooter was not the best choice. The first time they were here, we yelled, “Shooter, get down!” The look on the officer’s face was priceless. We were using the wrong tone. It wasn’t how we should have been saying it. The officer asked if we were alone and if we were okay. Are you being threatened?

We had to explain that was the dog’s name. We had to go through the whole dog licensing explanation. Fortunately, I had photo identifications made of ‘Shooter’. I offer them, which brought fun to the moment. After that incident, I took action to make sure the 911 center had a note. It stated that a dog named Shooter lived at our location. They should expect to hear us yelling commands at him because he loves everybody. “Shooter” lived until the age of 14. One summer, a micro-burst struck and tore the roof off our home. During the process, we were reduced to living out of one room of our home while it was under repair. “Shooter” had been showing signs of slowing down. We had been concerned we would find him gone some morning, but he was always there to greet us.

While the house was under construction, “Shooter” seemed worse. We called a veterinarian to come to our home. He not be there until the next day because of the damage. That evening, his breathing became labored, and we cuddled with him, holding our pal. He raised his head, let out two last whines, and died. Our “Shooter-boy” was gone. He had been our best friend and closest family member many times. He was filling in for the loss of others who passed. He taught us how to love and be brave during thunderstorms. In the end, I believe he showed us how even to die.

Today we have Otis. A Jack Russell Terrier. We describe him as a terror. He is a character. And a handful at times. He keeps us busy. Wanting to play, and running in and out of the house. He is very protective of his home. We have to put him in a safe area when we have company. He needs time to adjust to new people being inside. We wait to see what is up with him each day. Never knowing what he will do next.

Otis is named after the drunk on the Andy Griffith show. This is mainly because when we went to adopt him, he escaped from the shelter. Four people were chasing him around the parking lot and buildings. He finally was captured. And placed in a holding cell. We couldn’t help but love his innocent look he had after his little run from the law. He has an attitude. He will growl when he has had enough of you. Telling you to let him be. If you notice not any single one of our dogs have a single thing in common. Except that they were rescued from animal shelters. And they live a full and happy life.

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