Holly and me when she was only a few years old.
Holly was born on November 30, 1995. We found her after I had conducted over a year of research in an attempt to find the perfect dog. This research was required by Dad, who after owning "the livestock” wanted no more mutts: if we were going to get a new dog, Dad said, we were going to do our homework first. That is because Buddy and Sox—i.e., the livestock—had not been easy dogs to take care of. Buddy was a lab-mix who was an escape artist. He managed to escape from every situation he was placed in—ranging from squeezing through a sliding glass window of an Aerostar van to hurdling over a chain-link fence armed with electrified wire manufactured to contain horses (yeah, we were desperate). Our vet suggested that a playmate may convince him to not run so much. Sox, a free puppy chosen from a litter in the back of pickup, was our pick to fit that role. Sox’s breeder told us that his brother, Bandit, was the “pick of the litter,” and that he was the one we should take. But I fell in love with Sox, who, while were looking at all the pups, fell out of the truck onto his head. He would never recover. This dog literally ate firewood for breakfast. We would let him out back in the morning, and he would grab a log off the woodpile and start going to town. Once, when we took Sox in for boarding, the vet asked us what kind of food we fed him so that he could continue his routine in order to not upset his diet. Dad didn’t stop laughing until we got home.
Although we loved Buddy and Sox regardless, Dad said this time we were going to do it right. We were going to find a good indoor dog who was smart and liked children. I settled on a Beagle: small, energetic, and loyal. Our family friends suggested looking at a Beagle-Terrier—a mix that had all the attributes of the Beagle, but was a bit smarter and lacked the famous Beagle howl—and the search was on. And, they told us, they had a Beagle-Terrier, and he was “The Greatest Dog Ever.” I am sure they truly believed that he was—but then, they never met Holly. Holly truly deserved this title.
We tracked down two Beagle-Terrier puppies—Holly and her brother—and took Holly home they day she turned five weeks old. Despite one vote for “Precious” (Kathryn . . .) we decided on “Holly” to reflect that we had gotten her as a Christmas present. She was barely a pound the day we got her, and when we set her down in the snow so that she could go to the bathroom before we started our drive home, the three inches of snow on the ground came up over her head. She was the smallest, sweetest puppy I had ever seen. I was the happiest ten-year-old in the world.
Holly and me, the night we brought her home.
Holly shortly after coming home.
From the beginning it was clear Holly was unlike other dogs. For one, she was super smart—I mean, human smart. She was housebroken in what seemed like a day. Ryan and I walked home from school for lunch the first week after we got her to let her out, and she quickly picked up the routine: if I need to go out, I sit at this door. Smart. And she didn’t like other dogs. Our vet said this was probably because she was taken away from the litter at a very young age and never learned to socialize. We all knew, however, that this was because she was operating on a different level. When we went for walks and other dogs would sniff her or bark at her, she would just ignore them and keep walking. After they would pass she would glance up to us as if to say, “What an idiot.” She always considered herself on the same page as humans, and throughout her life we would always be amazed at how Holly could communicate with each of us.
Holly taking her place for one of the family get-together’s. Holly required a seat, just like everyone else.
Holly and me on one of our numerous fishing trips. Holly was the only girl allowed at the cabin. I am pretty sure she was also the only dog in Chase County, Kansas who got to sleep on a mattress each night!
A hooded sweatshirt was more appropriate for Holly than a collar ever would be.
Holly was easily satisfied over the years. For her, it didn’t get much better than a good game of tug-of-war. And she could spend all day chasing a tennis ball if you would sit there and throw it for her. She had so much energy that my Grandpa nicknamed her “Chainsaw.” She was always ready for a walk, and she was the one picking the route. When I had her in Manhattan during college, we would head out every night, and at the end of our block Holly would pull me in any one of three directions depending on how long of a walk she felt like that night. No matter where we would head, she always ended up at home. She had a better grasp on our neighborhood than I did.
Holly’s first experience with “Tug-of-War.” Holly’s favorite toys were a rope and a tennis ball.
“Chainsaw” wanting us to throw the ball!
Holly cut her foot one day chasing the ball and had to wear a cast for what should have been a couple of weeks. She chewed it off after only a day, and was ready to chase the ball again!
As a member of the family, Holly participated in the family holidays just like everyone else. She was always included in the family photo that graced each year’s Christmas card. And on Christmas morning, she would beat us all down the stairs and sit in front of the gifts Santa had left for her. She would always get to open her gifts first so that she could enjoy some of her new treats while everyone else opened their gifts. Santa would always bring her new some milkbones and, of course, a new rope and ball!
Apparently this Christmas there was something more interesting to Holly than taking a picture with a lit-up snowman . . .
Holly was always included in the family photos. And I made sure she was always sitting next to me!
Holly checking out her new toys Christmas morning. Notice, our gifts haven’t been touched yet. Holly always got to go first!
Yes! A new rope!
Holly surveying everyone’s gifts after we are done opening.
This was so below her. She is not happy.
During her final years, Holly slowed down quite a bit. Five years ago, she was diagnosed with a tumor that the vet reluctantly told us would be nearly impossible to survive. Holly defied all odds and made a full recovery. But, in the years following, she would chose to curl up next to us on the couch rather than run after a tennis ball. And although each time I came home from D.C. over the past year-and-a-half Holly would be a bit slower than the last, she would always be so excited to see me, and greet me with the same enthusiasm she used to show when chasing down a ball.
Holly and me after she was diagnosed with a tumor. We took this picture as I headed back to K-State, thinking it might be the last time I would see her. She would outlive this picture by more than five years.
In her later years, Holly got a new bed one year from Santa rather than a new rope or tennis ball. This would be a staple for her throughout her final years.
Holly curling up on the couch last year.
I flew home to Kansas City on Thursday night to spend a long weekend at home and catch a basketball game in Manhattan. I had expected for Holly to come running to meet me at the door as she always did when I walked in, but Ryan told me that he would have to go get her. She was having trouble getting around, he said, and he would have to carry her down the stairs. He brought her downstairs and set her a few feet in front of me. She mustered all the energy she could to wag her tail and make a step in my direction. Although she was hurting and had trouble breathing, she managed to greet me with the love and enthusiasm she had her whole life. It is amazing the bond dogs share with humans. It was time for Holly to go, but somehow she knew I was coming home. She held on long enough to see me one last time. Before going to sleep Thursday night, I went to Holly’s bed to pet her and tell her that I loved her. I told her that it was okay; that I knew it was time and that she could let go. Holly went to sleep and never woke up. She was 15 years old, and she lived a great life. She truly was the greatest dog ever.
Holly and me shortly after we brought her home. We would be inseparable throughout her life. I am going to miss you Holly!
