Sparky with Tim and Rex in May 2007.
Rescue. Lynne and Craig had their doberman, Greta, but no one could deny that Greta was really Craig’s dog. Their son Jess had gone away to college, then he and Laura were starting their life together. Lynne freely admitted to having empty nest syndrome when she began looking for another dog. Unlike me, she likes the fuzzy ones, especially Yorkies. She began checking rescue groups, and that led her to Sparky. In body and stance, he reminded me of a Norfolk terrier, but his coat and coloring were a Yorkie’s. They rescued each other.
Plucky. A few years later, Sparky began having health problems. Ultimately he was diagnosed with diabetes and was losing his vision. Greta was showing signs of aging. People would tease Lynne and Craig about their infirm dogs, but Craig said they’d probably both outlive him. Sadly, that was true. After Craig died in 2006, Lynne found her Westie, Minute, to keep Sparky company, since Greta was long past the age of romping. Sparky got a new friskiness because of his little sister Minute. He was stoic about his insulin shots, less stoic about his strict diet. He would have loved to eat all the time if he could.
Stubborn. I’ve had many opportunities to take care of Sparky over the years when Lynne traveled. I’ve seen him in a household with his siblings (after the loss of Greta, Lynne rescued Paco the Chihuahua) and Jess and Laura’s doberman, American bulldog, and mastiff. He’s been in my home with Margot, Guinness, and Tim’s Rex and Pixie. He’s been here when Sugar was added to the mix, and endured a range of foster dogs through the years. Nobody ever intimidated him. He navigated the front and back stairs in and out of the house, found the crate when he wanted to sleep undisturbed, barked at every mail carrier or delivery person who came near The Compound, and was never too blind to find his food bowl–or anyone else’s.
I think the happiest I ever saw Sparky was the time Tim and I took him to be groomed. He loved his haircut, bath, and pedicure. Minute was appalled by the pink bow the groomer put on her head–she is the great vanquisher of possums, after all–but Sparky felt jaunty and showed it in his walk and bark. Though his legs had gotten stiff, and even with his hair clipped short, that day he pranced like any Yorkie at Westminster would have.
But finally illness has taken its toll. Today, Sparky is gone, but the lessons he taught me about stoicism and perseverance will always remain. My condolences go out to his human and canine family and friends. He packed a lot of force into his little body. Just over a week ago, our friend Robin lost her cat Tilda, and today our friend Alan lost Miss Kitty. I feel certain that right now, both of them are ignoring Sparky’s bluster at that place where they all go to be healthy and happy again. Maybe later they can share stories of the amazing people who gave them wonderful homes full of love and care. I know we’ll be sharing stories about them for a long time to come.
