You were born in Louisiana to a dam whose fur was soft and silky, almost greasy-looking with its shine. You inherited her softness, but your coat was furrier. Dark brown. During summer, it bleached down your ridgeline like a racing stripe. Only you were never fast.

Your sire was a delinquent who hurdled the fence to reach your mom. (You didn't inherit that trait, thank Dog.) The owners were dismayed, then pleased to find out that both dogs were AKA certified Labrador Retrievers. So you missed being a b*stard b*tch--only I never bothered getting your papers.

I got you at a time when my life was hard. Really hard. And you became the reason I came home from work at a (semi-) reasonable hour. And got up in the morning way too early. We walked along the bayou or through City Park. You introduced me to my New Orleans neighbors.

We took owner obedience classes together. You were a star on stage. You could come, sit-stay, stand-stay, heel, and stop and lie down from a distance. You performed your routine flawlessly.

Did I mention you came when I called?

This never translated to real life. You weren't a dog to run off--slinking was more your style--but whatever you did, you did verrrry slowly. Especially the coming part. But you peed and pooped on command to the tune of "Do it up!" I'm not sure why my roommate at the time suggested this phrase, but it stuck.

Parks across America rang out with "Do it up, Scout!" on our three cross-country road trips from New Orleans to Seattle (and back and back). You sat shotgun, hung your tongue out the window when the lack of air conditioning became too much, and laughed at all my jokes. And when mom and I drove the U-Haul on one of those trips, you slinked from the floor to the passenger's lap. Then to her chest. Then perched on her shoulder going 60 mph down the highway. (No, this is not an exaggeration. Yes, I have photos to prove it--alas they aren't digital.)

Your namesake was Scout from Harper Lee's Too Kill a Mockingbird. A strong, southern female character that seemed fitting for a dog like you. Though I later regretted how common it was. But still, it fit.

You were not a common Chocolate Lab. You were a water dog, yes. And a fetcher, yes. But you were not a floppy, sloppy bundle of cuddles. You gave and received affection when you wanted to give and receive affection. You'd ask for a scratch or a game or a walk. But if I approached you--snuggled up on the rug beside you--you'd endure my petting only for a while before rolling your eyes and shuffling under the bed.

You were also the mellowest dog I've ever met. Even as a puppy. Sure, you'd spaz out like one of those 4th of July light-and-wriggle snakes when I got home from work, but besides that you moved slow. Steady. You were not easily convinced.

Except that sometimes at the park you would break out. You'd run with your ears cocked weird and your nose to the ground and your rear hopping like a bunny. And I would yell, "Crazy run! Crazy run!" And you would run crazy.

You barked when people came to the door, which was somewhat annoying but also had its benefits. I always felt safe with you, Scout.

When I was in college, I had this premonition of what my 20s would be like. I would live in an old white house in a funky neighborhood in Seattle and have a dog. I would be happy and hip and independent. All that came true. (OK, my hipness is debatable and the house was an ugly robin's egg blue, but still.)

Many people loved you in your lifetime, Scout. In particular, my dear friend with her matching yellow lab Flannery. The four of us roadtrippped from California to Canada. She (my friend, not the dog--though you might have more insight to this) would say, "Do it up, Doodledoo!" And she changed my typical "Kennel up!" to "Cantaloupe, dogs!" You thought that was clever.

All the neighbors from New Orleans to Ballard loved you too. We communed with them twice daily, morning and night. You helped me build a community that way.

Then there are my folks who fondly called you their granddog. When we went sailing for two years, you moved in with them. You thought their proximity to the water (a dock on Lake Washington) was preferable to our sailboat's proximity to the water. (The sailboat was another place you practiced your shoulder perching technique.)

The dreadfully charming Mr. Right loved you too. Along with my dad, he was your number one play pal. Tug-o-war. Hide-and-seek. Wrestling. You loved these games. And you loved long walks with me and my girlfriends too. I wish I'd made the time to do all that more, even as our family grew.

When the Bungle of Joy came along, you took the proverbial backseat, which, in the car, you had already moved to anyway. You were patient and understanding with her, even the ear tugs. And you grew to appreciate your new spot under her highchair. (We appreciated not having to pull out the vacuum cleaner.)

Which reminds me that I can't talk about you, Scout, without recognizing your amazing love of food. The breads, the bags of chips, the fresh-baked pies you've stolen over the years. Our friends never minded dogsitting you, except they had to keep their counters clear. Unless they wanted you to clear the counters for them.

So many memories, Scout. Happy and sad. Mostly happy.

The bone tumor came fast and furious. Not much time to say goodbye as you were in constant pain. Drugs didn't help. I've often said that when I got you, you saved my life. I wish I could have saved yours.

Over the years, you became part of my identity, Scout. Part of my young, female independence. You made many things easy for me--living alone, walking after dark, walking before first light (OK, that's never easy, but you made it bearable). You brought me so much joy. Your crazy run. Your warm head resting on my arm between shifting gears back when you were still queen of the passenger's seat. Your wriggly giggly self when I got home from work. Your dog's smile.

Thanks for everything, Scout. I love you and miss you.

Happily even after,
janna
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