where is Sabrina?

Devastated.......

The Keed.

Sabrina with critter-skull she found.

For an Irish-Setter, Sabrina was a very laid-back, mellow, peaceful dog.
Our first Irish-Setter, Casey, was fabulous. We got her about the time I started driving bus, and I think she was free.
We had been referred to a girl named Sandy O’Mara, a friend of our next-door neighbor; that neighbor was also a bus-driver.
O’Mara had a litter of Irish-Setter puppies, and was reduced to giving them away.
I remember picking up Casey in our Vega. She was only 12 weeks old, and terrified. —Never again; next time Linda would come along to hold the pup.
I think we had Casey at least 10 years, but she developed bone-cancer: a massive growth on one side of her mouth that closed an eye.
Casey got hit by a car once. She used to run loose while I rode bicycle.
I’d ride flat-out down a street though the Browncroft neighborhood — 30-35 mph — and Casey would be ahead of me.
A guy would be out mowing his front-yard, and all of a sudden Casey would boom through; come-and-gone in less than a second.
Ran the pads right off her feet, but she loved it.
The car-accident punctured a lung and broke her hip, but she recovered — although weak in the rear.
She was at the vet at least a week. —Linda said the first good sign was the first time Casey wagged her tail at her.
Casey dispatched at least 30 squirrels. After the accident she learned to stalk them.
I tossed her ashes in the park where she caught her first.

Shortly after we moved to West Bloomfield, we found dog #2, another female Irish-Setter.
Dog #2, Tracy, was a Cassandra-dog (Casey was an O’Mara-dog): one of a litter of pups from the rural outback east of Webster, an eastern suburb of Rochester. The Cassandras were her breeders, and Tracy probably cost us $200 or so.
Tracy was probably the alpha-dog of her litter, and I had to give her the third-degree when she snapped at me.
After that I was leader-of-the-pack, Tracy was #2, and Linda #3.
Tracy grew up to look a little like a Labrador-Retriever; too short in the nose, and broad in the face. (Casey was rather small for an Irish-Setter.)
Like Casey, I began running with Tracy at the park; loose because she wouldn’t stray.
Most depressing was leaving Tracy alone all day for the 8-9 hours we were at work.
Worst of all was leaving her alone as a puppy — never again.
Which lead to Sassy; a full-grown Irish-Setter that was supposed to provide Tracy company.
But that didn’t work; Tracy was extremely upset that another dog was on the property. Sassy was an interloper; the Trace felt she was supposed to be an “only-dog.”
Sassy was a rejected show-dog with a lower-jaw that projected ahead of her upper-jaw. We (I) never noticed. All I knew is that she was very spunky; a complete spazz. (Cost us $200: that was my offer; 200 buckaroos if you think we’ll give her a happy-home.)
She also was very tall, but skinny — the opposite of Tracy. And looked too much like a wolfhound: too skinny in the back.
We took both dogs to a nearby park, and the Sass, seeing the Trace was loose, wanted to get loose too.
Did we dare? I let her loose and she ran down an embankment about 100 feet into the woods, but then came back to us.
Wonder-of-wonders. Both the Sass and the Trace could run loose with me, and they didn’t stray.
In winter when I couldn’t run I’d turn 180° down a path, but the Sass would have started going the opposite direction.
Then she would see I had turned, and all-of-a-sudden the Sass would boom past going down the path I had turned onto.
The Sass was also an escape-artist; we used to call her the Houdini-dog. We built a kennel inside our fenced-yard, and the Sass would escape despite a chain-link roof.
Sometimes she’d dig her way out under the fence; other times she’d wiggle out a gap she had made in the roof. Many times the the 93-year-old nosy neighbor (not 93 at that time) had to collar her and put her back in the kennel.
Once we boarded her with the vet, and the vet wondered how she had gotten into an adjacent cage.
Then he saw her climbing the chainlink fence one day — pawed right up. Nothing would stop the Sass.
Then one day she escaped during a thunderstorm and we never saw her again. Ran through the motorbike-store down the street, but they couldn’t catch her.
That was after my stroke (I was working at the mighty Mezz at that time); and I’ve always felt I might have been able to do a better job of looking for her if I hadn’t been so stroke-addled.
So Tracy was back to being the “only-dog;” and lived out her remaining years with us.
Finally one day her back-end gave out while running.
And so began the long degradation. She still loved going to the park, so I’d (we’d) take her and we walked — and stop when she pooped out.
Finally it got so she couldn’t stand up, and the vet prescribed steroids. Never again! Steroids made her have to widdle a lot, and widdling was a struggle. Linda would have to carry her back inside.
We tried to get her to go to the bathroom in the garage — spread out newspapers, the whole kabosh.
But she insisted on going out.
Finally we gave up; and I’ve always felt not soon enough. We should have pulled the plug when she could no longer stand up.
Her ashes are in the south weed-lot she used to love to hoover. Even at the end, her nose was extraordinary.

With Tracy gone, we began to think about getting another dog — although this time without puppyhood. Leaving a puppy alone at home ain’t fair.
Which led us to consider a rescue-dog; a product of a broken home, or abused, or otherwise abandoned. Such a dog had already grown up.
The local representative in Rochester of the Irish-Setter Rescue Group came out to assess our digs, and brought her two championship Irish-Setters along, probably to assess how we reacted. One has even been in the Westminster-show.
How could we react other than positively? Here were two utterly spastic Irish-Setters running all over our backyard like loose cannons, thrilled to be hoovering a new, and quite rural, place.
That lady began looking for a rescue Irish-Setter, and located Sabrina; product of a family that had recently divorced.
The dog had ended up with the husband, and he felt badly that he wasn’t providing a proper environment. (The dog had been his wife’s.) At one time they lived in Californy.
He had given the dog back to it’s breeder in nearby Avon, N.Y. (pronounced “AH-von;” not “AY-von,” like the beauty-supplier).
E-mail pictures were supplied, and we went to look at “Sabrina” in the breeder’s home.
We ended up bringing her home. We had Sabrina alone for a few months.
Then “Killian” appeared as a rescue-dog; a product of at least two homes, one of which was apparently abusive. —We surmised this because Killian is always being submissive, and is frightened of raised voices.
Killian was ex of Kentucky, and apparently being kept near Harrisburg.
Getting him meant a long trip to Williamsport, and when we were first shown him we could refuse.
Killian was very rambunctious and pulled like a horse.
But how could we refuse an abused dog? Sabrina was a big dog, and Killian rather small — more a field-setter. I guess that could have been the refusal-angle.
We had Sabrina along, and she looked confused. What were we doing bringing that dog back home?
Again, our attempt to provide companionship was crashing mightily in flames.
So then we had two; and I could have broken Killian of pulling so hard, but he was already messed up enough as it was; so let him pull.
He also refused the crate — despite being frequently kept in a crate in previous homes. Obviously the crate was the slammer. —Apparently he had once knocked over the baby-carriage with the baby in it; running around like the loose-cannon he is.
So we now had both Sabrina and Killian.
Both are since the stroke; and I’ve always felt the stroke effects my ability to supply adequate attention.
But apparently the dogs don’t think so.
Killian is always thumping his tail at me the minute I show up; and Sabrina was thrilled to have me taking her for a walk.
In fact, both dogs love it. A proper walk is with the master.
And Sabrina was a very classy dog — a bit mellow and quiet, but very determined.
Once she waded into a small pond to get a drink, and immediately she was up-to-her-belly in mud.
She flashed us a worried look, then proceeded to extricate herself. (After that we passed that pond on the leash.)
Recently she fell ker-plop into the parking-lot trying to jump into our van. Got right back up and tried again.
Once, long ago, I took her along, loose, when I went cross-country skiing at Boughton Park (the so-called “elitist country-club”) and a ski came off and slid all the way to the bottom of a dam-dike; about 70 feet.
I had to walk all the way down the dam-dike to retrieve the ski — and that dog waited for me the whole time atop the dike; at least 10 minutes. Any other Irish-Setter would have run into the boondocks.
CLASS. And walking with me she’d prance-and-dance. Eleven years old and still pulled like a horse.
And memory of an elephant. “I remember that deer-bone. Let’s go over here, boss.”
Last Tuesday (March 20) we went to the park, and she pranced-and-danced like nothing was wrong.
Then about 3 p.m. she crashed — apparently the tumor on her liver had ruptured, and that made her weak.
Suddenly breathing was an effort.
When we picked her up the next day at the Honeoye Falls Veterinary Hospital for the ultra-sound she hardly knew who we were; or couldn’t react.
Yet the old dog was still convinced she had to get into that van on-her-own — although we had to help.
Who would have ever expected last Sunday I’d have to put her asleep before the week was out. She was losing weight; and something appeared to be wrong; but she still seemed healthy.
So now Killian is on-his-own; the only dog.
He looks confused: like where is Sabrina?

I “started driving (Transit) bus” May 20, 1977.

“Linda” is my wife.

The “mighty Mezz” is the Canandaigua Daily Messenger newspaper where I once worked.