In Praise of a Dog Named Moxie: Everyday Magic, Day 1,134

Moxie smiling the day she arrived

In the middle of the night I stepped out of bed, careful not to trip over the dog wedged against my side of the bed. Then I remembered: Moxie -- our very sweet, old, and somewhat weird border collie -- was dead

When she moved in six years ago, Moxie acted as if we were always her forever home. We got her from dear friends, when we were considering a second dog to help our current one at the time -- the late, great Shay, our chocolate lab-Weimaraner mix -- through his golden years.

Moxie with Miyako

When Moxie first trotted into our house, just a see-if-we-connect visit, she leapt on the couch and poured herself into my lap. She and Shay were okay with each other although border collies are more people-centered than other-dog-centered. She also didn't want to leave our side from that moment on.

This was a surprise for a dog who had previously been very timid, cowed into a corner by the small alpha dogs she lived with, so we decided to change her name to Moxie since moxie was what she needed.

She was a superb nurse dog for Shay, walking him outside for 2 a.m. bathroom breaks, even in icy weather when she would rather be dreaming of chasing rabbits. She checked on him when he lay inert on the couch and tolerated Miyako the cat, who developed a daily ritual of rubbing against Moxie's head when Moxie slept.

And did Moxie sleep. She was eight when she joined our family, and having been used to sleeping in a crate, she made a crate out of a small corner in the living room, curling up there for hours. But if company came, she came alive, lunging across the room in great joy and anticipation.

All that said, she was not a typical border collie. She had no taste for fetching balls or frisbees, and unlike most of her breed, she preferred sleeping in the sun to having a job to do. While we joked about getting her a small herd of sleep to work, our lack of fencing, experience, time, and actually any desire to raise sheep got in the way. Besides, she seemed most at home following me from room to room to make sure I stayed within the lines of my day.

She was -- like many dogs -- a very good girl, although a good girl with bad breath. Neither veterinary dental care nor any teeth-cleaning and breath-freshening chewies had much impact. I learned not to inhale when I was close to her face.

My favorite pic of Moxie laughing

She also had the very bizarre habit of humping herself in front of Ken and other men, especially when we had a full house of company. After not being able to crack the case with Mr. Google, I joined a Facebook group for border collie owners and found the owners were indeed just like their dogs: super smart with a lot of energy. A verbal brawl broke out when I asked why she was humping herself. After reading over 200 responses, I left the group. Moxie wasn't a normal border collie and I sure wasn't a normal border collie mom.

For the last year, Moxie has been sleeping more, which means most of the time but still going out often to amble or run through the fields. A month ago, all that changed. When she tried to stand, her legs shook. She hobbled as she walked with a distinct tilt. She lost a lot of weight quickly, muscle wasting our vet told us two weeks ago when we took her in, thinking it was the end. But an xray and blood work didn't show the problem. It could be cancer or something else, the vet said, and he gave her a pain shot, which worked.....for a short time.

It's a strange thing to have a dog put down, to make the decision that it's time. Yesterday, that time made itself clear. She could hardly stand, and the look in her eyes clearly said she couldn't bear to be here, which propelled us to the phone, then to our good vet's office. A little after 6 p.m., one of the vets gave her the two shots: one to relax into deep sleep, another to leave this world.

Last night, Ken and our son Daniel did a lot of shoveling in the moonlight behind our house in what I call Dead Dog Park. Eventually, the guys to lower her down. I tossed in her collar, keeping the ID tag. Because she was a Jewish dog (although I'm not sure she ever officially converted), we said the Kaddish. Then filled the hole beneath a rainbow-ringed - appropriately -- moon.

Now it's almost a day later. Miyako walks through the house meowing and looking distinctly pissed off. I'm a little confused (where did she, who was always here, go?) and sad, feelings I'll be tripping over for a while along with such gratitude to have lived with such a grateful good girl.