No one to greet me as I come home, her behind wagging wildly and wearing a big hairy toothed smile to see what I maybe brought her.
No one to say good morning with a wild little dance of her own making, up on her hind legs and pawing the air like a whinnying horse -- so exuberant that a new day had dawned and that she was alive to experience all of its wonderful possibilities.
We could play ball, hide n seek with treats, wrestle, or she could dig herself silly outside, hunting down voles like she was bred to do.
Zoe was a dog -- a black and white, rough-haired, Jack Russell mix. But she had more personality, life and compassion than most humans.
The first time I met her, Zoe jumped up onto my lap, sat there perfectly balanced and licked my face. We've been buddies ever since.
Whenever I picked her up at Mary's, Zoe would go nuts, crying and barking as if to say, "Why so long between visits?"
At the boatyard bungalow in Cape May we had many adventures.
One summer night a family of raccoons showed up in the trees off my backyard and Zoe was repeatedly bouncing off the vinyl lattice fence trying to get at them, much to the amusement of a friend and me watching by torchlight.
I often wondered how things would go if Zoe met a raccoon face to face. The raccoon initially might have mistaken Zoe, who had the same coloring, for another raccoon.
I imagined Zoe running circles around, and occasionally swatting the stunned raccoon the way Cassius Clay punished the lumbering Sonny Liston in their first bout in Miami. Like Liston, the raccoon would finally give up, and retreat to a neutral corner of the yard.
Together Zoe and I hunted and chased squirrels, rabbits, mice, possums, raccoons and the occasional stray cat that dared to venture into our hood. (though I would always allow the rabbits to get a running start).
I remember Zoe, after she had chased a mouse under the stove, repeatedly whining and pawing at the stove. "Zoe you can't get it that way," I told her. "He's not gonna come out with you pawing away like that. You have to wait quietly and be patient."
Then Zoe, seeming to understand me, sat back on her haunches and waited. I never did see her catch a mouse. But a couple months ago, at my new place, a cottage in Courthouse, I awoke on the couch and found a soggy, dead vole on the floor next to me.
"Thanks Zoe," I said, as Zoe looked up from her bone surprised, having apparently forgotten the night's before kill.
Another time, Zoe cornered a possum under the deck in the boatyard; the frightened creature stayed there, frozen all night, or least until we went to bed.
When Zoe's owner Mary would return home after a week or two with family and text me, I always managed to make excuses to keep Zoe another two or three days.
"I know she's having fun," Mary would text generously. "Keep her as long as you want."
Zoe loved tennis balls, soccer balls, anything round. She once sat on the neighbor's back deck, staring at the fence and whining. She had spotted the decorative wooden ball adorning the fence post and wanted it to play with.
For awhile there, I woke up wondering where Zoe was and then found her standing at attention in front of "Toy Corner" -- a cramped space with a TV table wedged between the refrigerator and the bungalow's back door.
It was where I piled all kinds of things I had no other place for -- broken gooneybird chimes, bug repellent, water guns, artist paint supplies -- and Zoe's treats, like rawhide bones, stuffed animals and tennis balls.
Several mornings in a row, she automatically assumed her vigil before Toy Corner, certain that it held a new surprise for each new day. Of course, I'd have to oblige even if it meant sneaking out to the dollar store for a squeaky stuffed hedgehog.
Zoe touched my heart immensely. She was a brilliant, fun-loving and affectionate dog. The best dog I ever knew. I loved her as much as she loved me. And she always entertained the hell out of me.
If we can learn from animals, and I know that we can, Zoe taught me and continually seemed to be reminding me of how precious is the gift of life.
Just a few days ago, Zoe was tirelessly retrieving Wiffle balls I batted out back.
A day later, she was unusually subdued. I thought she was mad at me for not paying her enough attention.
She wouldn't eat. Suddenly, she had no interest even in a doggie treat or, her favorite, a marrow bone.
With Zoe resting on my lap, I drove her to the veterinary hospital yesterday morning. It was serious. A dastardly disease that sneaks up on some dogs in the prime of their life.
Zoe died this morning. She wasn't even seven. But she packed enough living into those nearly seven years to fill seven lifetimes.
I will miss her. Thank you Zoe Snifferdink, my pal the Love Pup, AKA the Scruffin' Pup, for immeasurably enriching my life.
