Angus

Yesterday I lost a friend, one of those exceptional buddies who loves unconditionally, a friend who comforts you when you're sad, who rejoices with you when you're happy. I loved his smile, his big brown eyes, the way he liked to play. Maybe the fact that he had four legs and a cold nose made him even more special. Anyhow, I loved him. I always will.



I first saw this black and tan fellow peeping from behind our stone wall in 1996 as Ron bush-hogged the front pasture at our New London/Evington area home. Our black Lab Kushi welcomed him. I groaned. Not another stray dog to worry about, I thought.

When Kushi brought him to the kitchen door, I noticed a bad cut on the dog's left leg. I cleaned it with peroxide. He winced, but never growled or tried to bite. I was impressed. At that moment, I heard mooing from the black Angus cattle on the adjoining farm. Perfect, I thought. I dubbed him Angus. The vet said he was a Rottweiller mix. He sounded like a Rottie; he could bark ferociously and growl at the same time.



Because he'd been neutered, his tail cropped, and he sported a tattoo in his right ear, I figured it wouldn't be hard to trace his owner. Wrong. I spent days searching. I looked up dog registries on the internet. I called all the dog pounds, humane societies, veterinarians within a 50+ mile radius. I sent out faxes and fliers with his picture. Nothing. Weeks passed. The local newspaper, The News & Advance, wrote a story on him, plastered his picture in the paper. Again nothing. And by then I was madly in love with him. So were Kushi and Ron. You guessed it; we kept Angus.



After we moved to Smith Mountain Lake, Angus developed a passion for fishing and swimming. And he loved our children, our grandchildren, and all their dogs.



When Kushi died, Angus was a great comfort. And two years ago he readily welcomed Yellow Dawg, who just showed up and never left. Now Yellow, who is also grieving for Angus, is comforting us.



I haven't yet told my family about Angus' passing. I'm not ready to talk about it yet. But I can write, and for some reason I feel that Angus would be pleased that he is now immortalized. Thank you all for "listening" to me.

Friends

On Friday, June 25, my college friends Sallie Bette and her husband Tom, Honey, Harriet, and Mary Jane arrived late that afternoon for our second mini-reunion. Three of us had been roommates many years ago; the other two lived across the hall. I could hardly wait to see them. Ron likes being with them, too, and he and Tom always have a lot to talk about.

After dinner, we took a boat ride, saw the sun set over the lake. I like to show off our gorgeous Smith Mountain Lake, so I love it when the sunsets are spectacular. Our friends were impressed.

I like how the sun reflects in the boat's wake.

Saturday morning we visited Emerson Creek Pottery in Bedford County, and bought berry bowls, flower pots, mugs, liquid soap dispensers. I discovered that the lady working behind the counter was the mother of a boy my son Bill played with in elementary school. Marie is just as nice as ever, and still as pretty. I hadn't seen Marie for at least 25 years, maybe 30. Small world, isn't it?

Harriet, Honey, Mary Jane, Sallie Bette, Tom, Me

The antique boat show at Parrot's Cove Marina was our next destination. The boats were gorgeous, and I saw a friend from Lynchburg. Did I mention this is a small world?

Next we went to Bridgewater Plaza, shopped in Gifts Ahoy, one of my favorite shops at the lake, and bought some of their delicious, made-on-site fudge and a few other items. We trudged down the steps to the water and fed the carp, then bought hot dogs at the Ice Cream Cottage. While eating, in walked my son-in-law's mother, Judy, who was accompanied by another of her sons and two grandchildren. The world just keeps getting smaller.

Mary Jane, Harriet, Sallie Bette in corner, Tom, Me, Honey, Ron
at the Ice Cream Cottage

We piled back in the minivan and drove a few miles to The Cottage Gate, another shop I enjoy. They play great beach music, and I sometimes sneak behind displays and dance right by myself. Sometimes I dance in grocery stores, too. In case you hadn't guessed, I like to dance. We bought stuff there, too.

That afternoon we put on our bathing suits and dashed down to the lake. Honey even went down our grandkids' sliding board. No, you're not going to see pictures of us in our suits.

Harriet, Me, Sallie Bette, Mary Jane, Honey and Angus my 18-year old dog

I hated to see them leave on Sunday, but our cheeks hurt from laughing and needed to rest. If I have more facial wrinkles than normal, it's their fault. We know we'll stay in touch, see each other often. And we'll be there for each other. We're friends. And that's what friends do.

Out of the blue . . .

The voice on the phone said, “Sally Ross (that’s me), this is Sallie Bette. Do you remember me?” Remember her? Even though I hadn’t seen her in 48 years (Mother will haunt me for inferring how old I am), I’d never forget Sallie Bette, one of my college roommates. “I’ve found Honey, Harriet, Mary Jane and you. Haven’t located Barbara yet, but I will. We need to get together at the rivah.” (In case all y’all don’t know, “rivah” is Southern-girl talk for “river,” in this case the Pamlico River in North Carolina.)

Because of doctor appointments and other commitments, I couldn't join Sallie Bette, Harriet and Honey at Sallie Bette’s cottage in Bayview, North Carolina, a few months ago. “We’ll do it again soon when you can come,” they promised me.

True to their word, a few days ago I waited for these same three gals to arrive at my home. Would I recognize them? Would we have anything in common, anything to say to each other? Would our days together be full of gigantic periods of silence? Sallie Bette’s husband Tom was coming, too. Would he and Ron enjoy each other’s company? I looked forward to—and, I'm ashamed to say, dreaded—their coming. The driveway alarm signaled their arrival. I took a deep breath and walked out to greet them.

Honey stepped out of the car first. The others followed. They all looked the same—a little older, but as cute as ever. I would have had no trouble recognizing them. Within minutes the 48 years disappeared. We talked, laughed, showed family pictures, discovered that we still had the same values, reminisced for two days and nights. I learned that Honey is a master scuba diver and that her husband had passed; that Sallie Bette and Tom had spent nine months together chasing blimps (I’m serious—blimp chasing is an honest-to-goodness job!); that Harriet, who looks to be pushing 40 instead of old age like me, loves cats and lives in my home town. Ron and Tom enjoyed each other, too.

We toasted our together-again status with a bottle of champagne—and Honey Brown beer, not named for college friend Honey, but a good excuse to drink it, although I still prefer white wine, preferably Hickory Hill Winery’s Vidal Blanc. Sorry, Honey. Anyhow, Honey was in a North Carolina grocery store and saw, of all things, Honey Brown beer! Even though she didn’t make it, she had to buy a case. And, of course, we drank it. Well, some of it.

All six of us piled into Ron’s beloved boat for a three-hour cruise (was Gilligan of the Gilligan's Island fame a two or a three-hour cruise?) of Smith Mountain Lake. Because all four of our guests were huge (like gigantic book worshipers) David Baldacci fans, the first place on our tour, of course—and because it’s not too far from Ron and me—was Baldacci’s waterfront home. (In case you haven’t guessed, he’s my favorite author. His first novel, Absolute Power, hooked me. I recently stood in line in broiling, desert sun with no water and big red killer ants crawling up my legs—just kidding about the desert sun, the water and the ants--for an hour and a half just to get his autograph on his latest novel, The Whole Truth.) Note to My Favorite Author: We waved and yelled and acted like crazy folks and waved some more. So sorry you missed us!

And guess what else. I can’t believe it, but for once I was in the right place at the right time! At the Smith Mountain Lake State Park, we watched two osprey eggs hatch, saw two babies break through their shells, watched as Daddy took care of them until Momma returned. But that’s my next blog. Don’t miss it!

Too soon we said our goodbyes, but promised we’d get together again soon. I hope that next time Barbara and Mary Jane will be able to join us. And maybe by then we’ll have located Martha. If you’re wondering where Martha fits into this, she lived across the hall, was a good friend.

All y’all come back now, you heah (that’s Southern talk)?