Reba

Living in the country, we saw a steady stream of female dogs dumped out by their original owners. Invariably, they were at the six-month-old mark and ready to go into heat for the first time. Rather than pay the vet to spay the dog, these so-called humans dumped the dog along a country road. 

That's how I got Reba. She simply showed up in the neighborhood one day. Of course I fed her. My father voiced his displeasure and disapproval quite clearly and adamantly. We had a dog - Rebel. Dad didn't want another dog, especially a female. I continued to sneak food to her. Dad continued to say -  emphatically say - no. 

Then the next thing I knew Dad was working overtime to pay the vet to spay her and we had another dog. I named her Reba, a sort of feminine of Rebel. 

I'm not sure what year that was. Young girls tend to forget such details. I do know Reba had only been with us for a very short time before Rebel died. 

Reba set about winning Dad over completely. It finally worked and she was allowed in the house on a limited basis. Instead of an outside dog house, she had a cozy den in the garage. When it was too cold outside, she got to sleep in the kitchen. Then she got to sleep inside more often as she proved herself trustworthy. The times they were a-changing. 

Reba followed me everywhere. If I walked down the road to my girlfriend's house, she was right beside me. If I wanted to ride my bicycle, I had to put Reba inside the house so I could get away without her. Sometimes she'd be outside when I got home, but more often than not, she was still inside. My parents were learning an inside dog was a more enjoyable pet - a companion. It occurred to me Reba learned a lot more than Rebel did because she was with us more. 

A collie mix, Reba was easy-going and smart. And furry. My goodness did that dog have fur! In the spring, I could pull out big tufts of fur with my fingers. I could've stuffed pillows with what that dog shed. Mom had to help me give her a bath. It took both of us to get the shampoo down to her skin and then thoroughly rinsed out. She was snowy white when she was clean, which never lasted long. She'd go roll in the grass. Reba was not a lady.

When I took Sinbad out for exercise, she'd follow along. She knew Sinbad (I didn't name him) didn't like dogs and so she kept a cautious eye on him. They came to tolerate each other. 

I left Reba behind with my parents when I married for the first time. My Great Experiment took me to a rented place in town for the "honeymoon phase." No dogs allowed. Besides, Reba was a country dog. She had her freedom, and by this time her buddy, Rogue (another neighborhood stray who should have been named Rover or Roamer or Mooch). 

Reba died in her sleep the spring after I left home. I missed her for awhile, but I remain grateful for what she taught me - that dogs are smarter than we think and all they need is the chance to prove it. 

She taught me that if we take one step toward them, they will take ten - or a thousand - to us. 

Reba was the dog my father protested the strongest against, and the last dog my father made sleep outside the house. I think that was her gift to him. 

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The first thing I did when I acquired my first home on my own land was get a dog - the lovely  Raven