Being the youngest of three kids, I watched my older sister and brother take off for college directly upon graduating from high school. Then I spent the next three years of high school waiting for my turn, giving my parents fits as I broke the mold on acceptable behavior. The youngest is usually the rebel, and it was certainly true in our family.

As each sibling left the family nest, an animal suddenly appeared to replace them. With my sister, it was a small gray cat that somehow got tagged with the name “Muffy” though was only ever beckoned by “Here kitty, kitty”. You know how cats are. She was friendly enough, ate little, and adopted my father’s lap as her preferred throne, even though he was the least inclined to cats. Figures. She trained him in a short time to allow this camping out on him. I believe he was secretly impressed with her good selection.

My brother returned from one of his adventures to the east coast with the sorriest looking tri-colored Sheltie (miniature collie for you non-dog types) hideously overrun with ticks, fleas and all sorts of dog grunge. How he recognized the inner beauty that would emerge, once properly bathed and groomed I’ll never know, but then he has always had a special gift about dogs. “Daffy” was her name, stuck on her long before we rescued her from that lowly existence, and, she was pretty daft, as I recall. The slightest sound would cause her to go into fits of sharp, ear-melting barks that would last interminable lengths of time, while running and spinning circles in fevered excitement. If you could catch her, you could shut her up, but she was bred to outrun sheep at full throttle, we mere humans had little chance to win that race. Either we allowed her to bark herself out, or sometimes, you might launch a pillow or something to create a break in her one-track, frenzied little head. She was lovable, and, really a beauty, with her sable black coat, white chest and mahogany markings. My mother spent endless hours combing and brushing her coat until it gleamed. Naturally, she became Mom’s favorite, even though the incessant barking was enough to fry the last nerve of a comatose person.

The summer of my graduation marked the end of teenaged battles with my parents over when I should be home at night. I had worn them down past the midnight hour, though tried to respect their schedules by sneaking in quietly during the wee hours of the morning. My pack of friends were a motley crew of suburbanite kids, married to motor cycles and partying who were old enough not to have curfews, while still having the need to work to pay off loans for their bikes. Several shared a ramshackle dump of a house in the country where we mostly hung out.

One afternoon, someone showed up with a beautiful little golden fluff ball of a puppy that was reportedly half St. Bernard and half unknown, but looked like a golden retriever with a white collar. He needed a home or would be sent to some unknown fate. I claimed him immediately, naming him “JoJo” after a favorite group. His large paws indicated he might become a major dog. I proudly brought him home to my parents and whined and wheedled just enough to plead his case: you have a big yard, you need another dog, isn’t he soooo cute???

Once again, my dad with the soft heart relented to his baby girl. And so JoJo grew quickly into about 75 pounds of fur and love and ferocious bark, eventually becoming just “Jo”. I was true to my word, walking him and picking up after him and feeding him until such time as I had to depart for school in the fall. We spent a glorious summer together, Jo and I, swimming at our local gravel pit, running wild together. It was harder to leave my dog behind than my family or home, but somehow I surrendered him to my parents.

Jo became the dog that traveled, living in Vail with my brother for a couple seasons, going to the beach with me, camping with either of us. He had the best life a dog could hope for, and always a place at my parents’ fireside in the cold of winters long after he’d retired his youth. Once again, my dad was the one to spoil him, letting him lick the bottom of his bowl of ice cream and chocolate sauce. Jo developed odd seizures that would send my parents racing to the vet, though they never discovered the source of his maladies. Years later it occurred to me that all that chocolate sauce probably did it, as we never knew not to give chocolate to a dog.

When his days were coming to an end, nearly twelve or more years later, it was my poor dad who suffered the greatest loss. He wiped tears away from his eyes just talking about that crazy old Jo. But we had left our piece of heart in each of the pets that replaced us in the nest, and those animals gave my parents such love in return…I think they got the better deal in the pets!

Nancy Nylen is a single mom with new found freedom, now that her baby has moved out to attend school…looking forward to the next stages of life, wherever the road leads her. Visit her at: http://www.causeoflife.com

Tags: dogs, Empty nest, parenting, teens

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