My Corgi died this afternoon. Her full name was Ruby’s Lady Cordelia and she would have been 11 years old on March 26. We called her Corrie.
She was an eight-week-old puppy with floppy ears when we brought her home. I carried her on my shoulder when she cried at night for her mother, patting her back and murmuring to her. We trained her to sit, stay and lay down, but she never would roll over. Something about it scared her. The best was if you said “Gimme five!”, she would lift that little four-inch leg off the ground as high as she could. I swear she smiled while she did it because it even cracked her up.
She was a happy dog who made us happy. She was beautiful with a personality to match, funny, affectionate and loyal. She was a small dog with a big bark.
I had a perpetual line of Corrie-height dog hair on whatever I wore. Tumbleweeds of Corrie hair collected in corners. She acted deliriously happy to see me when I came through the door, whether I had been gone for minutes or days. She was a warm presence at my feet or at the side of my bed at night. For eleven years this was a constant.
It’s funny about dogs and how they insinuate themselves into your life. I can still hear her nails clicking on the floor. Her dish still has some food in it from her breakfast. Her lead is hanging by the back door. I guess she will always be with us. We were so lucky to have her. I believe dogs are good for your soul. They love unconditionally and ask for so little in return.
I held her in my arms for a while and just told her what a good dog she had been, how much I loved her and how much I’ll miss her.
She was. I did. And I will.
Good girl, Corrie.