This page is dedicated to the memory of my first Aussie and first rescue.

Marks' Odie ASCA/AKC CD, CGC

December 1990-July 1997

In the summer of 1993, Odie was surrendered to the shelter where I was volunteering at the time. My three children and I walked dogs once a week, and they were always wanting to take one home. I steadfastly refused until one day when my oldest son walked this beautiful red and white Aussie that stuck to him like glue. We adopted her, and for the first three days home, it seemed that she didn't lie down except to sleep. The intent was for her to be my son's dog, but after those 3 days, she moved under my bed and was *my* dog ever after. We went to obedience class and had so much fun that I decided I wanted to compete. I joined a small local dog training club.

Odie earned her ASCA and AKC CD titles as well as a CGC. Not all rescue dogs come with baggage, but Odie had it to spare. Part of that was her extreme dog aggression. I can't imagine her standing even to be bred, let alone raising a litter of puppies. She and my first Rottie hated each other. She would attack another dog without warning, and she scarred all of my dogs and several of the rescue dogs. If I were a one dog only person, she'd have been just fine. But that wasn't the case. Taking Ovaban (a hormone) took the edge off just a bit, which enabled me to live with her for 3 years. It also made her fat. Keeping her separate from the other dogs worked, but then she was locked away from me as well. People told me to place her, but how could I? Who would want an almost 8 year old dog with the issues that Odie had? Besides, no one could have loved her like I did, and who knew where she might end up? I couldn't bear the thought.

I stubbornly believed that if only I could be vigilant enough or if I only searched long enough for the magic cure that I could manage her. She was a velcro dog and loved me with such devotion that I was compelled to return it. She treed a bear once while we were walking, and I have no doubt that she'd have given her life to protect me. That's a humbling thought.

One night, though, I knew it was enough. She was crated downstairs, and the Rottie must have gone down for a drink. Whatever set them off, I woke to the sounds of a dog fight and came down to find blood all over the crate. I made the appointment to take her to the vet's, and when the day came, we went for a long walk. She had an entire McDonald's Happy Meal and then died in my arms, all the demons that drove her finally at rest. I miss her still.

But it's because of Odie and my love for her that I became involved in rescue. It was she who kindled the deep love for this breed in my heart. Because of her, countless Aussies' lives have been saved. There can be no greater tribute to her life.

WHERE TO BURY A DOG By Ben Hur Lampman

A subscriber of the Ontario (Oregon) Argus has written to the editor of that fine weekly, propounding a certain question, which, so far as we know, remains unanswered: "Where shall I bury my dog?" It is asked in advance of death. The Oregonian trusts the Argus will not be offended if this newspaper undertakes an answer, for surely such a question merits a reply.

It distresses (the writer) to think of his favorite as dishonored in death, mere carrion in the winter rains. Within that sloping canine skull, he might reflect when the dog is dead, were thoughts that dignified the dog and honored the master. The hand of the master and of the friend stroked often in affection this rough, pathetic husk that was a dog.

We would say to the Ontario man that there are various places in which a dog may be buried. We are thinking now of a setter, whose coat was flame in the sunshine, and who, so far as we are aware, never entertained a mean or an unworthy thought. This setter is buried beneath a cherry tree, under four feet of garden loam, and at its proper season, the cherry strews petals on the green lawn of his grave. Beneath a cherry tree, or an apple, or any flowering shrub of the garden, is an excellent place to bury a good dog. Beneath such trees, such shrubs, he slept in the drowsy summer, or gnawed at a flavorous bone, or lifted head to challenge some strange intruder. These are good places, in life or in death.

Yet it is a small matter, and it touches sentiment more than anything else. For if the dog be well remembered, if sometimes he leaps through your dreams actual as in life, eyes kindling, questing, asking, laughing, begging, it matters not at all where that dog sleeps at long and at last. On a hill where the wind is unrebuked, and the trees are roaring, or beside a stream he knew in puppyhood, or somewhere in the flatness of a pasture land, where most exhilarating cattle graze. It is all one to the dog, and all one to you, and nothing is gained, and nothing lost - - if memory lives. But there is one best place to bury a dog. One place that is best of all.

If you bury him in this spot, the secret of which you must already have, he will come to you when you call - come to you over the grim, dim frontiers of death, and down the well-remembered path, and to your side again. And though you call a dozen living dogs to heel, they should not growl at him, nor resent his coming, for he is yours and he belongs there. People may scoff at you, who see not lightest blade of grass bent by his footfall, who hear no whimper pitched too fine for mere audition, people who may never really have had a dog. Smile at them then, for you shall know something that is hidden from them, and which is well worth knowing.

The one best place to bury a good dog is in the heart of his master.