A Tribute to the Mystic Hound

Ten years ago my Aunt Ann rescued Misty, a then-four year old Daschund, from her friends who lived along an alligator-infested bayou in Louisiana.

As it turned out, Misty was a sweet, but nosey creature that liked to poke her long, wiener dog snout into places that alligators liked to wait for unsuspecting prey.

It was after one such scare -- and Misty's blatant disregard for becoming a Daschund-shish-kabob -- that her loving owners shipped her off to live in the rolling hills of rural Mississippi, away from gigantic reptiles.

I can distinctly remember the first time I met Misty after she joined my Aunt and cousin for her new existence in air-conditioned, country living. Her body was a dark blue-ish black, with brown around her face and nose. She was short. Plump. And surly. Being all those things myself, I immediately liked her.

Misty was unlike anything we – my cousin, sisters and I -- could remember. We'd mostly had large, sturdy, outdoors dogs for pets as children. And suddenly here was this barking, miniature hound dog, with magically mischievous eyes and a long, wet tongue.

Of all her features – I most remember her tiny webbed-looking feet and her hopping, kind of like a chunky bunny rabbit most everywhere she went, halting only to stick her nose in hole's it didn't belong, or investigate things that seemed like they might be eatable.

We spent most of that first summer with Misty, watching rented movies – tapes, not DVDs – and eating cheap frozen popsicles, which were bought in bulk.

The air-conditioner was a high as it would go, and Misty would pile up between up on the couch at my Aunt's house and we'd laugh and giggle and sometimes even cry at the cinematic experience. All the while, Misty sat there with us, lobbying for her own popsicle or belting until she was being petted properly.

Misty celebrated our birthdays with us, eyeing the cake and helping shred discarded wrapping paper. That fall, Misty was the there when we buried our beloved grandfather – the first death that mattered to any of us grandchildren.

No, we didn't realize it at the time or even for one second consider the importance. Misty was just there. She was always there – sweet, cantankerous and comforting.

And if weren't for Misty and her counterpart Suzie, there wouldn't have been a long string of other little, "lap" dogs that followed. There'd be no Chica, no Babs, no Roxy, no Rubert, no Sonny.

And there certainly wouldn't have what I like to call The Next Generation: Stretch, Munchie, Lucy, Ripken, Deuce and the baby, Rio.

Misty head-butted the door open, so to speak. She broke us in, made us love her and made us want to love others like her. She was more than a dog or a pet. She was a daughter, a sister, a cousin, a companion and a good friend. She was the first – and she was special.

She was there for an entire decade of our lives. The mystic hound participated in 10 Christmases, approximately 70 birthdays and even the deaths of our grandparents and the loss of our Nene.

Misty saw all four grandkids off to college, hated a bunch of boyfriends and finally sanctioned two marriages.

Misty enjoyed dressing up for Halloween, "hunting" in the flowerbeds and, after she went deaf, didn't even mind fireworks at the Fourth of July.

She even tolerated Rio and his four pounds of Chihuahua fury.

Yes, Misty has lived a long, good life – a life shared with her "people."

And so at 14 years old (100 in dog years) we shouldn't have been surprised when Misty passed away Sunday.

For some reason, though, my mind doesn't want to believe it. Its like I can't stand the thought of her not being there, stationed at the feet of my Aunt Ann, ready for the next birthday or Christmas or just a lazy summer day watching movies.

Well, my probably non-existent readers, I know this has been a little rambling, but it was hard to write. All that I do ask is for you to take a moment to remember the Mystic Hound, whether you were lucky enough to have fallen under her spell or not. She was a good dog, better than most people I know and not even this little ode to her greatness on the Web does her justice.

Happy hunting Misty, I'm pretty sure you're enjoying the fatty parts of a nice big, rare steak and sniping lizards in Heaven's gator pit. Don't have too much fun without us.