There were a few things I wanted as a kid but my parents said I couldn’t have until I was out of the house and financially responsible for myself.  Motorcycles. St. Bernards. I think those were the only two things I can remember my parents telling me I was on my own for.

Shortly after I reached my first duty station in Montana, an ad appeared in the paper.  I ran for two weeks. It was for a five year old St Bernard.  I was worried about why anyone would be giving away a five year old St. Bernard.  I had to go to the field, but I told my then husband to check on it.

When I came back, there was a large, easy going St Bernard in the house.  She came with her own sleeping bag — bed. She was a great dog.  She had some withering in her hips, and I can only conclude someone didn’t want to deal with an aging, crippled St Bernard.  Her name was Babe, and she was the light of our lives.  She was a wonderful dog.  We’d go out for ice cream and take her with us.  She got her own single scoop, which her tongue would wrap around, and she’d swallow it whole.

She was a terror on window screens.  We bought a role of window screen material and repairs every screen she punched through in the house.  We knew when she’d be bad, because her mannerisms gave it away.  There was really only one time.  I had beef ribs on the counter to thaw.  She’d been left alone in the house.  The ribs were gone, and she was miserable (too much, even for her).  Those big sad eyes looked up at me.  All you could do is say, “Baabe.” And she heard your disappointment and looked even sadder.  We never had to yell at Babe.  She could tell from the tone of your voice you were unhappy with her, and she worked all the harder not to disappoint.

We had fun with her.  Here’s one of my favorite photos of her:

We had four wonderful years with her before she died. My only regret was not bringing her into our home a week earlier. She was a special dog.  We had her cremated, and I still have her ashes.

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