So Mernie calls the other morning to say simply "Tooley has cancer." This was unexpected. Lime disease? Maybe. Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever? Possibly. Cancer? Never saw it coming. Neither did our vet. She says Tooley's conditions and symptoms are taught in Vet school but it's a unique condition most doctors never see in all their years of practice.

Tooley.  Part Heffalump. Part Woozle. I brought her home the day I found her running around a McDonald's parking lot as they were posting the film posters for 102 Dalmations. Spotted like a dalmation but shaped like a pit bull, she was all round head and gangly legs. One pink eyelid, one black, as if something in her nature was all about the winking. And her tail--it seemed to have a mind of its own, wagging her whole body this way and that, like a wind up toy. I drove her home that day not so sure what I'd do with her. I certainly didn't need another dog, nor want one. I had a cat, two chihuahuas and a giant move ahead of me, from Orlando to Atlanta. But when she bounded from the car, I noticed scars on her small legs and belly--big ones, the kind that might have come from being tied up or whipped with a belt--and I knew right then she wasn't going anywhere.

Nine years later and Tooley, my only big dog, who we affectionately refer to as "the horse" (and sometimes, "the spotted heifer") is having troubles. I've not lived with her for three years. When I moved to Taos, she and Petie (our third chihuahua) stayed in our house to keep Mernie company, for they were all three best friends. But now Tooley doesn't want to eat, limps everywhere and even her tennis ball fails to rouse her enthusiasm. Test results are in. She's on her way out.

On one hand this sucks donkey cheese. Silas and I are packing up today--the only reason I can pause to write this missive is because I'm burning a few audio books to get us through the 22 hour drive--and soon we'll leave Taos for Atlanta. Our plan is to spend some quality time with Tooley, say our goodbyes, and have a howling good time remembering (and mourning) our friend. It's raining in Taos today, the Old Man is snoring, and the thought of driving 22 hours to euthenize my dear friend is almost more than I can bear. But on the other hand? The one that's not fixated on donkey cheese? Mernie and Petie will climb in the 4runner with us and take off for our first ever cross country road trip. (I like to think in terms of Pooh Bear words, so this would be our grand "expitition.") We will take Tooley's ashes with us and all set out for parts unknown. Maybe we'll see the Grand Canyon, or drive through the red rocks of Sedona, or simply drive back to Taos. Although Silas and I have made the trek back home to visit our crew, Mernie has never been to Taos, or seen our home and studio out here. She would not leave her best dog friends with someone who didn't feel like family, and all the people that feel like family in Atlanta have full time families, and were never available to babysit 24/7. So Mernie's been grounded, so to speak, for three years, aching to leave, resolved to stay, asking the angels for change.

So here we are. Gathering together for a huge adventure because one spotted angel heard her cry and decided to help. A rare angel, and strange. One pink eyelid, one black, winking at us, wagging us onward.