I have been dreading to write about this, but I need to get it out, or this post won't make sense. Whatever making sense really is.
Well, our oldest dog died in a freak accident. His name was Odin. Note: Use care when naming a pet, or even a child after a god or goddess. Odin, was a tough dog to train. We got him at a pet store, while picking up supplies. There he was, a big puppy, who had just come out of quarantine for respiratory, issues. He was displaced because of hurricane damage to the breeder or pet-shop him and his siblings were at. So he pretty much lived in a cage for the first part of his life. The store had him marked down, so we all felt pity for him, paid and brought him home. Until the day he passed on, he still laid down when he ate (a habit from being caged for so long.)
A foxhound in a historic St. Petersburg FL neighborhood, where the houses where lined all up like dominoes. Several of my neighbors questioned my choice of a hunter dog in a densely populated location and let me know. My other nice neighbors enjoyed him. Especially my neighbor Sandy. She was a city bus driver, until an accident caused her to be unable to work. It was her life. But she loved Odie. He would jump up high enough for her to see his head pop over the fence, and throw his head in the air with a loud hound dog howl. She could see him from her window of her house across the street.
I told the nay-sayers, that I got the dog before I got the farm. I told everybody that. That is how I got here. I not only spoke about Odin coming before the farm. I started a "mountain box" and announced to whoever would listen, "I am putting this in my mountain box". At the time, it appeared absolutely impossible to leave FL due to an ongoing custody issue, and a very revengeful and paranoid ex-husband and the father to my two oldest. I am not calling names. It is just the fact. So, it looked impossible to me. I saw no way out, other than I continued to talk to the universe. "This, is going in my mountain box." There was a box, and then another, and another. I also would continue my dog mantra. "I got the dog before the farm."
That is how magic works. You work your will. I worked my will.
There was a break in the clouds, I sold my house and made my bold move. You have to work with the Universe, if you pray, or practice magic. You are part of the same Universe, same God of that which what does your bidding.
So I ended up in the mountains, in a rental, in yet another city. I was miserable. So I searched for a farmhouse, away from exhaust smells, sirens, and people. I found this house, where I am here writing you from. The Realtor let us in. I loved this old house. I climbed the stairs up and took a right, and in that room upstairs, was at least 30 trophies. Fox Hound trophies. I decided then, this was it. The Universe answered. Odin, my foxhound, was a dog and was a dog spelled backwards.
And so it was. We worked this land, and Odin was tied up because was an escape artist and he was a runner. But we soon realized, we were no longer in a city. Odin was a big boy, and we needed him to mark his territory. He kept away the big dogs down in the valley. He kept away foxes, and weasels and anything else he could smell. We could hear him up the hill on a trail, and he would always come home.
Odin had a tough beginning in life. So our gift to him was the mountain and his freedom. He was happy. He ran and ran.
Odin seemed to remember though, the sound of a diesel truck. One of my neighbors, who disliked him (even though she had three dogs) had a big truck, with big wheels, and a loud engine that she loved to rev up at all hours. Odin would do his howl bark and answer that truck. So, it was a circular issue between them.
It just so happened, that my neighbor Shirl's son has a big flat-top truck. A diesel. Odin reacted the same when Shirl's son visited. And just two days ago, as he backed out, and started to pull forward, Odin was run over by that truck, and died instantly.
I was hanging laundry when I heard Shirl call me from the road. "ah, Willow?"
I checked Odin's vitals, and he was gone, gone. I could see Shirl's distress, and his son tried to explain. I told them, it was my decision to let him roam, and that they should not feel bad. I told them that Odin had a good life. I pulled my farm dog off the road and laid him behind the sunflowers. I would need help to bury him, and would wait for Rusty. We literally live on Rock.
I wasn't sad. It was weird. I felt like Odin had a good life. That I had brought him to a place where he belonged. He was a happy dog. I thought about that if it was my day to die, I would want people not to be sad. I would want people to know that I was happy, before I signed out of this life.
The weird thing: He never went after the chickens, but that morning he pulled the wire from my chicken tractor and killed two of my young chickens. Why do you suppose that was? Was it the chicken's time to go? Did Odin have his last meal? Why?
So we buried him that night. Caleb sang some song and tossed in bamboo with him. I laid some Black-eyed Susans on his body, then we covered him with earth, and large stones to mark his grave.
I belong to a few rescue groups. I saw a posting for a Great Pyrenees who needed a home. Which led to another. We had been talking about a herd guardian dog for some time. But now with Odin gone, my flocks and herds were left vulnerable. Even the beagles, as there is an Elk-hound who used to sneak attack them before we let Odin roam.
So, we have a new dog. A new farm dog, for the next phase. My hope is that she is happy. Rusty ran 4 lines of electric fence wire today. To keep her in with her flocks and herds. I feel better.
Her name is Isabella, but goes by Izzy. She is 8 months old, and is a very smart and loving girl. Today was her first day on the job.