BOINK!

Scarlett, about seven years ago. (Photo by Linda Hughes.)

My silly dog, “Scarlett” (two “Ts;” as in “Scarlett O’Hara”) is 11 years old.
She’s gray in the muzzle, but can still jump five feet in the air to snag a treat.
“How old did you say this dog is?” a friend asked; “she acts like she’s two.”
Scarlett sleeps with me; she can still jump on my bed: BOINK! I don’t have to help her.
Of all the Irish-Setters we’ve had, and Scarlett is number-six, none was as springy as Scarlett. 11 is late 70s in human years, but still BOINK!
Our previous dog was 10 when he had to be put down.
Another dog’s back-end gave out at 10.
Scarlett is a rescue Irish-Setter. A rescue Irish-Setter is an Irish-Setter from a bad home, abusive or a puppy-mill. Scarlett is from a failed backyard breeder. She was penned and had two litters of puppies before age-3.
By getting a rescue-dog, we avoid puppydom. Scarlett was not abused, so was in good shape.
Our previous dogs were rescues.
Scarlett came from Ohio. My wife was still alive back then, and we had just put down a very high-energy Irish-Setter due to cancer.
My wife was interested in getting another dog, and found out Ohio Irish-Setter Rescue was going to bring a couple dogs to Buffalo for a “meet-and-greet.”
A local couple was considering Scarlett as a therapy-dog. We would consider one of her puppies.
We found the location in Buffalo without much trouble, due to Google-maps and Street-Views.
Finally the lady pulled in from Ohio. She had the dogs in crates.
She opened the side-door of her minivan.
WHAP-WHAP-WHAP-WHAP!
“I hear a wagging tail,” I cried.
“Oh, that would be Scarlett,” she said.
The dogs were let out. We greeted our puppy, and Scarlett promptly dragged her prospective master to the ground.
“Here, let me try her. I just gave up on a high-energy dog.”
We traded dogs. The couple took the puppy, and me Scarlett.
Yank, pull, lurch, slam. Scarlett was extremely high-energy.
She also was beautiful, more feathered than any Irish-Setter we’d ever had.
The couple would take the puppy. Scarlett was too much to be a therapy-dog.
“Is it fair to the dog for an old guy like me to take this dog?” I thought.
That was eight years ago, and we brought home Scarlett.
A lot has happened since. My wife died three years ago, so now I am alone with Scarlett.
Which is fine with her, since she attached mainly to me.
The master has also fallen to no longer being able to give Scarlett the active life promised.
I used to take Scarlett to the park for long walks.
I/we quickly learned Scarlett had to be on a leash. If she sensed a deer, she would bolt.
We almost lost her twice, and me once more after my wife died. I’d had my cellphone number embroidered on her collar, and that saved her twice.
Scarlett became a hunter. At least 10-15 rabbits have died in her jaws, and innumerable mice, moles, and chipmunks. Anything inside her pen is dead meat.
I refuse to discourage her. This is why dogs were domesticated: food on the table.
So now Scarlett is it. A friend told me she changed jobs so she could better take care of her diabetic cat. People advise her she should put down that cat. But she refuses to do so.
I can understand that. No way am I giving up on Scarlett. She wants to be with me, and will be as long as I can.
My hope is that some day I can take her back to the park. That will require a knee-replacement; I’m hobbling bone-on-bone. Other ailments are delaying the knee-replacement.
But Scarlett wants to be with me.

• “Linda Hughes” is my wife who died.