Low Country, Yellow Dog

We lost our beloved Labrador Retriever “Peachie” to cancer last October. For months we grieved, consoling each other with memories of the sweet and hilarious moments we shared with Peachie, some of which readers have learned about in earlier stories on this site. She began life as a ten-pound puppy that dragged me down the stairs more than once and could strip the squeaker out of a twenty- dollar chew toy before you could say “American Express.”  

Over the years she grew to be a very gentle giant. At seventy pounds, she was still afraid of water and by age five had assumed the role of an aging aunt, correcting our bad habits and insisting we go to bed and get up on HER schedule. But it was clear that she adored us, our extended family, and she even tolerated the crazy antics of the menagerie of dogs our children and grandchildren dropped off at our home during vacations and travels. Peachie endured them all with patience and affection.

For a while, we dismissed the idea of getting another dog. We wanted to travel, and dog sitters are not cheap. Kennels were out of the questions. We always felt like we were dropping Peachie off at a flop house and worried about her when we left her behind. She was an excellent traveler. Would a new dog understand our ways and our needs? Ignore our passion for playing Scrabble? Or ignore children who pulled her tail? It all seemed complicated.

Gradually, we began to reconsider and started reading Labrador breeders’ websites. We were sure that only a Lab would do. At our age, we wanted a gentle dog, and one large enough to fill some big shoes. At that point we were shocked to discover that many breeders wanted thousands of dollars for a pup. Peachie cost $500, which seemed a fortune at the time, and we had asked about an installment plan.  Maybe the price rise was because breeders could make a bundle by crossing their Labs with Poodles and Golden Retrievers to produce “designer puppies “. The market for ” Labradoodles” has soared. They sure were cute in the online photos. But we are just Lab people, sold on a breed that has been one of the most popular and reliable breeds in America for years.  The All- American family dog.

Maybe a a serious search on animal shelter and rescue organization websites would offer a yellow dog we could afford.  This refocus in our search was discouraging. Every site seemed to offer Lab mixes, but candidates’ photos seldom bore much resemblance to Labs.  And, the Covid-19 Virus had arrived, so the shelters were quickly emptied of their most desirable pets or simply shut down as we all tried to figure out how we would function in a pandemic.

One night we were watching “Monk” reruns on TV. Remember the theme song that went “People say I’m crazy, I worry all the time. If you paid attention, you’d be worried, too.” Pretty prophetic, right?  We fell into the habit of doing internet searches on our laptops while the TV blared on. We took turns showing each other pictures of cute dogs, especially puppies. We tried the sites that specialized in Lab rescues. Either the dogs looked too much like pit bulls, were so old we could only look forward to yet another canine funeral, or the offerings were pups, the ultimate size and appearance of which could only be trusted to fate. Would that advertised Poodle-Lab mix grow up to be a Scottish Elk Hound? You never know. Despite watching a thousand episodes of “Dog Tales” and building a first-name acquaintance with local shelter employees, we just about gave up. Then the divine light shone down on us and a response arrived from a query we had posted weeks earlier. It was for a young female Lab. Yellow. About a year old. House broken (“potty trained” for the uninitiated). Could this be our girl?

We were excited but there was a snag. The shelter was about 275 miles away in the pine thickets of southeast Georgia.  On such a long trip, where would we go to the bathroom safely in the middle of a pandemic? Oh, and there was another problem. Would I be okay to drive nearly six-hundred miles in 24 hours?  Karen can’t see too well at night.

We decided we would split the trip into two days, spending a night on St. Simons in a decent motel and take our face masks, food, and cleaning supplies with us. Even though we were apprehensive about traveling, we felt like kids playing hooky.  We stopped to picnic at Little Ocmulgee State Park near McRae-Helena.  Perfect. We never saw another soul and picnicked under the moss-draped oaks overlooking a lake.  

Our night was spent in the village of St. Simons  on the island at a hotel called “Ocean View” or something like that. It would have been a beach view, but a hurricane, decades earlier, had robbed the small tourist town of its sand beaches. It was overcast and rainy, but we walked the peer and stared into the shops. This was a homecoming for me. I had lived nearby as a boy and played in the shadow of the beautiful old lighthouse. (Hope you read my account of falling from the Jekyll Island Bridge when it was under construction.) We managed to find a restaurant with well- spaced outdoor seating and enjoyed fresh seafood for the first time in years.

We were scheduled to have our visit at the shelter at noon the next day, so we had time to drive around the island before leaving. The roads are willy-nilly on St. Simons, but we managed to find our way to Christ Church Frederika, where the Reverend Anson Green Phelps Dodge is buried near his two wives, all characters in Eugenia Price’s romantic novel of post-Civil War life on the Georgia coast, The Beloved Invader. It is one of the most genuinely beautiful spots in Georgia, so I snapped a photo for my readers. The church is surrounded by a lovely garden-like cemetery, and each stone marks the resting places of participants in the two- hundred- year history of the church. But we were on a mission and living our own story.

The drive across the new suspension bridge was a bit disappointing as modern bridges often are more beautiful at a distance. Still the array of the endless, spiring cables was impressive, though much less impressive than the miles of solemn marshes and ebbing tides that surrounded it.

We hurried through the outskirts of Brunswick and into the deep borders of planted pines that stretched endlessly in every direction. Then a surprise. Much of the higher ground gave way to cotton. Miles of it, white in the fields and on the verge of harvest. Following our navigation system down a dirt road, we found ourself in a community of houses in the deep woods, sanctuaries where people lived well and simply. We stopped at a fenced yard and risked unfastening the gate. We were met by several aging and friendly dogs, likely long-time residents left to be loved by the shelter owners.

Lois, who had been so patient in answering our questions by email and phone, welcomed us into her home where she introduced us to a mother Beagle with seven or eight pups, Lab mixes. They were all shades of tan and will surely be adopted after they are weened. Then Lois brought a yellow Lab in from the kitchen, a young dog that looked much as our Peachie had in her youth. We knew in minutes that this friendly and beautiful dog was perfect for us. For the cost of her shots and neutering, she was ours in a matter of minutes. We drove the seven hours back home content that we had done the right thing and felt grateful to Lois for the heartfelt effort she puts into rescuing dogs. We have named our “daughter” Emily and you will hear more about her as she adjusts to her new home.