Week Fourty-Two: Shanta

Once upon a time, I had the best dog ever. Her name was Shanta, and she was everything from a partner in crime to a pillow. Shanta and I grew up at the same time, we spending thirteen years of our lives together. I remember when I was younger, Shanta was a staple in whatever I was doing, whether it was smashing dog treats with rocks and feeding her the mixed up powder as a gourmet doggy restaurant, or playing house in the woods with Shanta as my pet wolf, she was always there.

One year, my sister and I decided that since Shanta was a husky, it would be a brilliant idea to hitch her up to one of the sleds and have her pull us down the hill. Shanta decided that it would be the opposite of brilliant. To our dismay, she was terrified of the sled, and so ended our very short career as mushers.

In the summers, I spent hours making terrifically inedible foods from flowers and sand. Shanta, who wanted to be included, regardless of what it was we were doing, developed a habit of helping herself to whatever blossoms were designated for our colorful salads. In turn, we developed a habit of plucking rhododendron flowers and feeding them to her, in lieu of actual dog treats from the store.

As I grew older, flowers gave way to little bits of whatever food I was eating that day. Carrots and sandwich bread, egg salad and potato chips, you name it, Shanta wanted some. Everything but fruit, that is. She couldn’t stand fruit, yet she would beg for it if we had some. It never seemed to cross her mind that she didn’t, in fact, like apple cores, no matter how much fun we seemed to be having with ours.

When she lived outside, Shanta slept in the snowdrifts, nose tucked under her tail, leaving behind a little round icy divot in the flakes. During her days, she raced through the woods, catching anything foolish enough to wander into her path, and more frequently than not, devouring it. The sheer fact that she could catch birds was a testament to her speed and agility, and her area of the yard became a graveyard for small woodland creatures, while our family struggled to remove the hapless toads that hopped in her way.

Twice, we almost lost her. The first time, we could only assume that she chased after a deer and sprinted out of the range of her invisible fence. The second time, we found her (with the help of some wonderful people) three and a half hours away in Wrentham, MA. She had been hit by a car, broken her leg, and almost certainly been abducted. From that day forward, Shanta became an indoor dog. Her life and our family’s lives changed forever.

A “begging line” was established in the kitchen, and Shanta’s disgusting but well-loved toy, “hamboogie”, moved inside with us. Tina learned to tolerate the new addition, not finding much joy in having an intruder in her cat-only home, and we learned to tolerate the mountain of fluffy white hair that Shanta left wherever she went. The house was full of laughter and an enthusiastic dog. Suddenly, picking up spilled food became Shanta’s job, a job that she was all too happy to take on. I should say, she was happy to clean up everything but the fruit. Old habits die hard.

After a while, I decided that Shanta needed a voice to share her opinions about what was happening around the house, so I became her “tail-voice”, vocalizing on her behalf, and attempting to tap into what she was thinking from the look on her face. It soon became clear to everyone in the house that Shanta had very clear opinions about certain things, like perceived favoritism of the cat, certain high-pitched singers on the radio, what sort of food should be cooked for dinner, and was indefinitely puzzled by the fact that humans shed their entire coats every day, and that while her snowdrifts of hair were a source of annoyance, nobody found the fact that humans sheadded daily odd at all.

It never really occurred to me that, while I was growing and becoming older, Shanta was, too. In my mind, she was always my puppy, and I called her that, as the years past. Last April, Shanta suffered a series of seizures, and rapidly declined, dying a week later.

I miss my puppy every day. She was one of the most sweet, gentle, loving, funny creatures I have ever met, and I am immensely privileged to have spent 13 years of my life with her.

Once upon a time, I had the best dog ever. Her name was Shanta.