11

Eleven years ago today, Mother's Day, May 8, 2005, this good guy walked into our lives. We had just returned from southern Oregon with a load of veggies for planting in the garden. While I moved the tomatoes around, I heard the clink of a dog chain, and when I looked up, two dogs came running through our back yard. I said, "Hey, what are you guys doing?" One of the dogs, a pitbull type, took off west at the sound of my voice, never to be seen again. The other, a youthful black lab, plopped down at my feet, tongue hanging out on the warm evening, and grinned up at me. 

"I'm home."

His dog collar held a tag with his information: Kirby, and a Dayton, Oregon address, and a phone number. To make this story short, all of the efforts to find his owner came up empty. So Kirby, you were indeed home.

The vet said he was probably between two and three when he came to us, so he's somewhere between 13 and 14 today. Back then, he hammed for the camera. Today, he hates it. The spot where he's pictured here is exactly the place he said hello to me those years ago. Today, it's the place he hangs and watches me work. 

It's hard to put into words all he's meant to us and all he's been through, all the miles he's walked and traveled with us in 11 years. He swam his two "laps" in the Willamette today, and right now he's sleeping here in the living room as I write this. 

Oh, that I wish I could turn back the clock those 11 years. Welcome home, Kirb. Happy "birthday."