Pretty and I were privileged to share our home and family for the past five years with a little old man named Carl. He was supposedly 12 years of age when he came our way, quite a mess health wise but full of courage and spunk. Carl’s world had shrunk dramatically in the past few months due to a total loss of hearing, limited vision, stage four heart murmur, and arthritis in his back legs that made any movements difficult. His sideways gait seemed to make his sundowner pacing in the afternoons more agitated. On Friday, May 9th., 2025, we said our final goodbyes to this terrier mix. Our pain was one we recognized and remembered, a pain that was still fresh from Spike’s passing six weeks ago.
Carl reminded me a little of The Red Man –
I hope they get to meet somewhere to swap stories
Red could tell Carl about the Lexington County Animal Shelter where Pretty rescued him, and Carl would have a few stories of his own that only he knew. Pretty also rescued him; they could compare notes on how she managed to keep them without running their redemption past any other family members. Pretty knew best.
Carl in July, 2020when he came to us
Carl the dog with nine lives in April, 2022
Carl on patrol in back yard– he loved his yard
Carl looking dapper after grooming (April, 2022)
Carl sharing space with Charly next to my chair in den– 2024
Carl in April, 2025
Pretty and I still grieve the losses of Sassy, Smokey Lonesome Ollie, Paw Licker Annie, The Red Man, Tennis Ball Obsessed Chelsea, and six weeks ago our other old man Spike – Carl was loved with that same passion. We will miss his spunk, spirit, bravado, loyalty, and adoration – our home won’t be the same without him. His urn was engraved Carl Williams Morris: A Warrior Heart.
May he go to the Place of Endless Treats and rest in peace.
“I came to cheer you up,” announced three-year-old Molly as she pulled me the three steps from the carport to the back door of the kitchen. I told her thank you so much and how happy I was to see her, how much I’d missed her and her big sister five-year-old Ella who was galloping ahead of us with her mother, Caroline, and Nana. Molly’s words made me smile – she had already cheered me.
Caroline had called earlier in the afternoon to say she and the girls were coming over to cook dinner for us that night since we had told her and our son Drew we had asked a veterinarian to make a house call to help us say a final farewell to our little Carl the next day. Since she had been the vet we used when we needed this assistance with our big guy Spike six weeks ago, she was familiar with our location and made the appointment for Friday, the 9th. of May.
The little girls were like a tornado of energy – their laughter, moving at warp speed all over the house and back yard leaving a path of destruction in their “tree house” and our den – provided a welcome distraction for Pretty and me from the pall that enveloped our house for the past few days of waiting for the inevitable. Caroline got busy in the kitchen and cooked a delicious shrimp creole dish for us. For dessert, she’d even brought a yummy key lemon pie.
“Let’s take a family photo,” exclaimed Ella when her mother said it was time to go home. After all, it was a school night. Caroline shook her head, said it was past their bedtime, but I chimed in with Ella and argued I thought a picture was a great idea. I felt Ella was trying to postpone getting in the car to leave, but it was the first time she had asked for a family photo at our house so I was 100% on board.
Ella, Nana, Naynay, and Molly
I had hoped Carl would stay outside with us for the family picture, but we took too much time getting fixed. When we came inside and the girls were about to leave, I said for them to be sure to give Carl a hug on their way out, and Ella said, “Carl is going over the rainbow bridge tomorrow,” as she bent to give him a hug. Molly took off one of the four necklaces she’d found in Nana’s jewelry inventory and draped it on Carl’s neck. Caroline quickly intervened and gave the necklace to me.
The girls ran to the car with their mother while Nana and I followed to say goodbye to them. We heard Caroline laugh and asked her what was going on. “Ella said she hoped Carl didn’t run into Spike over the rainbow bridge because there could be a bad fight.” Nana reassured Ella that nobody would get mad at each other on the other side of the rainbow bridge. Caroline added if anybody did get angry, there would be baby gates like Nana and Naynay had in their house to keep Spike and Carl apart.
Nana and I agreed later that Molly, Ella and Caroline had cheered us, the perfect distraction for the sorrows to come in less than twenty-four hours.
On Thursday, March 27th., Pretty and I lost our beloved Texas dog Spike – not totally unexpectedly because he was old for a big dog, yet somewhat of a surprise because he had been in a slow decline for a long while before suddenly finding movement almost impossible Thursday morning. He told me and Pretty he was ready to go with his soulful big brown eyes. That afternoon an angel of mercy came to our home to help ease his passing. Our family has lost a cornerstonethat cannot be replaced.
In January, 2022, I published the “Spike Story.”
When my cousin Martin saw Spike for the first time he said, “Sheila, that ain’t nothing but a cur dog. Plain as day.”
That was in the spring of 2012, the year my two mothers died within two weeks of each other. I was a motherless child by any definition at the end of April, the month Spike appeared on Worsham Street in Texas as a motherless cur dog which according to the Merriam-Webster dictionary definition, and my cousin Martin, meant he was a mongrel or inferior dog – surly or cowardly.
When that cur dog showed up on Worsham Street in front of our house, Pretty and I had four other dogs: Annie, Red, Chelsea and Ollie. I tried to convince my neighbors across the street to keep him, but both of them had cats as well as dogs plus jobs that required their daily presence. I was a stay at home writer. My neighbor Lisa and I tried to find his owner for several days but finally realized someone had dumped him in our neighborhood so he belonged to Worsham Street. I called Pretty to talk to her about him – she was working and living most of the time in South Carolina while I had been in Texas to take care of my mother – and since we split the four dogs into two separate households – what was one more?
At first Spike was skittish around Red, Annie and me. He preferred to stay in the yard, but one night the rains came; I saw him sitting on the back porch looking at Red and me on the bed through the sliding glass door which I got up to open for him. He came inside that rainy night – never to be an outside dog again.
Spike sound asleep with his buddy Redon our sofa in Texas
(spring, 2012)
Red was quick to besurly – Spike not somuch
Spike seemed to understand that he was the low dog in the pack. Red was the alpha male because that’s how terriers roll. Smallest in size – but Red was the recognized “star.” Annie was a big dog like Spike but much older. She allowed Red to lead as long as she approved of his leadership, but don’t ever cross her. Spike learned to avoid her, but he loved Red. Red adored Annie. Typical love triangle similar to humans. Am I right?
The math Pretty and I had originally calculated worked well when we were in different homes but changed dramatically when we were together in South Carolina. Then we knew we had five dogs. Looking back to those years I’m not sure how we managed but we loved them all.
Spike, Redand black lab Chelsea in back yard on Canterbury Road
Spike fell in love with Chelsea on his first trip to South Carolina in 2012; it was a feeling that stayed with him as long as she lived – a feeling that remained with him forever after she died in March, 2016. To this day he whined or barked when he saw a big black dog walking by on our street from his perch on the couch in our living room on Cardinal Drive.
Spike at homeon our patioat Casa de Canterburyin July, 2012
Spike and Chelsea on my grandparents’ bedin September, 2014
my grandparents would be horrified if they knew
One by one Spike’s pack succumbed to illness and old age, and he became the sole survivor in the spring of 2016. Pretty and I promised each other we would shower him with affection, treats, walks, to give him the attention he hadn’t experienced as the interloper of the original four. We tried for months to lavish him with our love – perhaps partially to assuage our own grief. What happened surprised both of us. Spike’s grieving was as real as ours, and he didn’t like being an “only” dog. He missed his pack.
Enter Charly in the summer of 2016. Charly was twice rescued: once by Pawmetto Lifeline and then by Pretty, Spike and me.
Spike and Charly in ourliving room – 2019
when you can’t be withthe one you love,honey, love the one you’re with
Now we have another little old man about the same size as Red, but Carl and Spike aren’t buddies, though – neither is Carport Kitty who definitely dislikes our three dogs. That’s okay. Charly runs interference between Spike and Carl who has learned the importance of pretending CK doesn’t exist. Spike has a pack again. Pretty and I love them all.
Spike on his walk –January 11, 2022
By the way, cur dogs are really a wonderful breed of “hard-working treeing hounds” with traits that include being devoted to their people, protective of their environment and fabulous additions to families.
So to my cousin Martin I say thank goodness Spike ain’t nothing but a cur dog. Pretty and I wouldn’t have him be anything else.
So you think you know snow? Ha. We are rolling in it in the sunny South. On January 22, 2022, I began this post with pictures of snow in our backyard.
only one dog outsidewith me three years ago: Carl
Carport Kitty reignedin the winter of 2022
(she died in October of 2022 – she never had to face a cold winter again)
Carport Kitty and Pretty have similar feelings about winter. Thankfully her heated pad keeps her toasty warm in the laundry room – Carport Kitty, not Pretty. Heh, heh.
The sun also rises, the snowflakes melt, and Pretty will leave me to work in her antique empire while I watch the disgraceful television coverage of the 2022 Australian Open this afternoon. Bollocks.
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Fast forward exactly three years to January 22, 2025. Old man Spike walks with me in the fresh snow around the pool in our backyard.
Carl still with us but prefers staying inside over his cold paws in the snow
to each his own, right?
The Australian Open is winding down to its inevitable close this weekend. We have three Americans in semi-finals this week, and not one of them is named Venus or Serena. Hm. Ben Shelton is in the semi-finals for men’s singles, Madison Keys is also in a singles semi-final, and Taylor Townsend plays doubles with K. Siniakova for the women’s doubles semi-final. Spoiler alert: at least one American will play in a final.
Between snow and semis, my sleep pattern is wrecked. I barely know what day it is on this continent – much less in Australia.
Vive la difference. Stay safe and warm. Please stay tuned. We enjoy your visits!
Spike to Charly: Listen, did you hear that? I think the old woman is scraping the bottom of our food box.
So what? Charly said.
So what? SO WHAT? I’ll tell you so what. It’s nearly six o’clock on a Saturday afternoon, and we’re going to be out of food tomorrow unless our Great Provider manages to contact Woody’s Pet Supplies in the next few minutes. No food for our meals, not to mention we’re out of Buddy Biscuits. When will herself learn to make reminder lists.
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Point taken. Shoulda, woulda, coulda made a list, but no worries. I left a voice mail for Davis, the young owner of Woody’s who occasionally bailed me out of my emergency orders by delivering the dog food on his way home from the store after he locked up at seven o’clock. I tried not to take advantage, but he wouldn’t be surprised by my predicament on the weekend before Christmas.
He didn’t call back, though, nor did he come by our carport Saturday night. Sigh. Davis must have been swamped with last minute Christmas shoppers, I thought. Well, good for him. Pretty and I had supported his business since it opened in the summer of 2022, watched his inventory grow, celebrated with him when he found a good groomer to add those services so if he was too busy to call me, I was really happy for him. There was no possibility Spike, Charly, or Carl would go hungry when we could feed them leftovers.
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Sunday morning my little terrier Carl and I were in the kitchen staring at three empty dog dishes. It was 8:00 a.m. which was when the dogs ate breakfast. Carl looked from me to his empty dish with alarm.
Spike and Charly had begun barking from their posts in the den when they heard their dishes rattling around.
I was startled by a knock on our kitchen door; a man stood at the bottom of our steps waving at me. No one came to see us at this hour, but he looked familiar so I walked toward the door. There stood Davis with a huge bag of dog food and two boxes of Buddy Biscuits. I’m sorry I didn’t get these to you last night, he said, but we were busy so I didn’t listen to my messages until this morning. When I heard yours, I drove to the store to get what you needed.
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Kindness is contagious. I will treasure many moments with family and friends during this 2024 holiday season, will be moved over and over again by thoughtful gifts and gestures, by music and memories that inspire good moods, by stories that remind me joy and laughter are still possible with faith in a future of possibilities for people of good will. All is not lost.
But I hope I always remember Davis appearing on my doorstep at 8 o’clock on a Sunday morning the weekend before Christmas with peanut butter Buddy Biscuits for Spike, Charly and Carl. That was service above and beyond – kindness that should be celebrated regardless of the holidays we observe.
I'll Call It Like I See It 
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