Macie

Macie was a West Highland White Terrier. She was the most beautiful, photogenic, charismatic dog I've ever seen.

Macie was three and half years old when we first met her in August 1995. We had baby Trinket for a few months and wanted to find him a companion so he's not so lonely during the day. Macie was surrendered to the same rescue group that Trinket came from by her elderly owners because they couldn't care for her. She was over weight, had an injured back leg, had serious skin allergies, wasn't house-trained, nor leash-trained. But she was mild tempered, and beautiful. Bill always wanted a Scottish dog, a Westie in particular. We fell in love with her at first sight, and brought her home.

For the next three years I played doggie nurse, vet tech and a caring mother for a rescue dog. We battled her skin allergies with everything we could find. We tried every imaginable powder, cream, shot, dip, lotion, shampoo, collar, pill, that prevent or treat flea bites. We could have killed hundreds of generations of fleas in our neighborhood. She ate potato and venison based kibbles and treats. Once a month I took her to the grooming shop so she had the proper Westie look with a nice little skirt around her short little legs. The rest of time I bathed her once a week to sooth her inflamed skin, cleaned her ears daily to keep ear infections at bay, treated many rashes occurred when she had a flare up.

Macie wore an E collar most of the time to keep her from biting the hot spots. But that wasn't enough to stop this feisty girl. Bucky arrived a few months after we got Macie. At first Macie thought he was the rat that Westies were bred to capture on fishing ships. As Bucky blossomed into a fine young gent, the two became playmates. Macie was just serious enough to be ready to wrestle or chase the pug down any time, but not too serious to get into a fight. She helped burn a lot of that endless energy from the ever growing young pug.

Before long Henry came. When Henry was six months old I was home alone all day dealing with a colicky allergic teething baby, two rambunctious young dogs always fighting for my attention, and the regular care of Macie. Something had to go.

We adopted Macie out, with our local Westie rescue's help, to a woman pastor in Santa Rosa. In the occasional correspondence, the lady painted Macie's life in the old age: Macie went to play tennis with the lady in the morning; Macie was the mascot at the lady's church; Macie was happy and playful; on summer nights Macie would sit on the deck, pondering the mystique in the starry sky, just like she did when she was with us.

Macie died on in February 2005, just shy of thirteen years old.