Right now, a big lump of black fur is busy snoring at my feet. She sounds like a diesel semi-truck warming up on a cold morning.
This dog does almost everything alongside me. She eats what I eat. She goes everywhere I go. Even on long road trips. We've been doing this for years now.
In fact, each day around ten o'clock—which is when I run errands—she sits at the front door, whimpering. Every few seconds, she'll trot up to me. Then to the door. To me. To the door. Me. Door. Me. Door. Back and forth, until she's a blurry streak of fur
and dander.
I won't lie to you, she's ruined my vehicle. You'll find dog saliva on my truck windows, seats, and dashboard. And, there's enough black hair in there to build a special kind of black-and-tan snowman. But it doesn't bother me. I carry a lint brush.
The other day, I took Ellie to Geneva, Alabama. I drove backroads. We rode past a scenic, open field just off Highway Two. I pulled over. If you've ever wondered where Heaven is, it's on the way to Geneva.
I kicked the door open and tossed…