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"QUILLIE" March 30, 1992 - January 3, 2009 Our pets honor us by their faith and trust, bringing out the best caring instincts and benevolence of our human race. "Queen Quillabee," for that was the full name gifted her by my daughter, Anna, came to our family by an accident of fate. I had left the garage door open, and the dog Santa had placed for her under the tree, nicknamed B-Boy, wandered out into traffic. We had not intended to get her another dog so soon, but when she mentioned the word Maltese, in my grief and remorse I went to the local mall to learn something of the breed. There was a small Maltese puppy that had just come into the store, still bedraggled from her flea bath. The owner suggested I take her into the get-acquainted room. The dog that would become Quillie, Quilliam, and finally, simply Smaow, lay down next to me as if to comfort my sorrow, and so she became ours. That was her job, to be part of you. A lap dog, her devotion so deep, she liked nothing better than to nestle in your presence, ever-beside. Never graced with the silky long hair of the purebred (we were sure her mother, Honore Marshmallow, had been fooling around with some young mutt), she would hop like a bunny when she ran, circle to-and-fro when excited, and race around the living room when first awake, as if excited to greet the day. Steph taught her to eat with a fork. She was easy; content to be carried, and a free giver of her unconditional love, though she seldom made friends with other dogs. She brought out that love in people; any walk in the neighborhood elicited a smile to the face of those who saw her, who reached down to give her head a scratch, who received an affectionate lick in return. Bred for warmth in the distant climes in which her ancestors originated, she radiated an innocence and faith. Our Christ figure. She celebrated her sweet sixteenth birthday last March, and finally the onroads of time began to erode her eternal puppyhood. We were away from home most of the holidays; on Saturday we finally returned. There, on the chair in the living room where she had always liked to nestle next to a member of her pack, she let herself go, on my chest, heart to heart, in the place where she will always belong. Lenny Kaye |
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