Miss Annie Daisy: The Dog that Changed My Life

Miss Annie Daisy 1999 – 2014

On Monday, June 30th, exactly eleven days after we euthanized Joe Poop, Mason and I took our first and eldest dog, Miss Annie Daisy, a six-pound fifteen-year-old Yorkshire Terrier for an evening stroll, which she always set the pace for because her short legs had to prance ten times the speed of our slowest pace.

It was a hot southern mid-summer evening, muggy enough so that the insect’s chirping made the soupy air seem to pulse. Even in the stifling, overloud heat, Miss Annie walked the whole mile, prissy little behind bouncing back and forth. At fifteen- years- old, cataracts clouded her vision and she could barely hear, but her mobility had the spring of a much younger dog. I distinctly remember watching her, pink tongue hanging out, tall ears pointing like mountain peaks, thinking she had a few good years left. I was still working through Joe’s passing, and I liked the thought that I wouldn’t have to worry about Miss Annie’s death for a long, long time.

In all honesty, Miss Annie should never have been mine, and I should never have been Annie’s. She was a thousand dollar purebred Yorkshire Terrier that weighed six pounds (!!!) with an attitude that could rival any southern belle, while I’m a tomboy that loves dirt and lives like a minimalist.

But, through a very strange set of circumstances, she came into my life and for a whole year, it was just Miss Annie and me, making our way though this crazy world, trying to find a place where we belonged. Often, like the time Annie had stared down a horse for a drink of water, I wondered how such a gargantuan soul could live inside such a tiny body. But mostly, I just didn’t care because with Annie I discovered the power and rarity of unconditional devotion. Annie was the best friend I ever had or will have.

Although I could list a thousand reasons why Annie was special, the thing I loved the most was her ability to change people. Sometimes, it was as simple as coaxing a smile out of the grumpiest greenway vet or making a crying child giggle, but other times she actually altered people’s convictions.

For instance, around the awful 9-11-01, Mason and I were friends with several Muslim guys from Saudi Arabia and Syria attending Vanderbilt University. During that terrible period of societal turmoil, we became very close to one particular student named Yasir.

Yaz was in his mid-twenties and looked like an Arabian Santa Claus, jolly with an easy grin, sense of humor, and huge heart, but he had grown up believing that animals, particularly dogs, were dirty creatures that had no place in the home. When I first met him, he wouldn’t allow a single animal inside his apartment.

But after a few months of knowing Miss Annie, who unintentionally wooed him with her irrepressible charm, Yaz’s lifelong dislike of dogs completely changed, until he even allowed Miss Annie’s best friend, a giant slobbering boxer to sleep in his apartment. Annie had that kind of power, the kind that changed convictions. And she never had to speak a word to do it.

On that Monday, June 30th, shortly after we got home from our late summer stroll, I ran downstairs into our unfinished basement to switch loads of laundry. Since one of Annie’s favorite hobbies was curling up in warm laundry, she waited expectantly at the top of the steps, wearing her trademark smile, spinning with excitement. I put the basket on the kitchen table, grabbed a bath towel to wrap around her little body – only ten or so seconds passed – but when I turned around, towel in hand, my whole life changed.

I caught a glimpse of Annie tripping down the staircase, bouncing off the edge of the second highest step and falling eight feet onto the concrete basement floor. She never made a sound. Not one cry.

Mason said all he heard was my scream.

When I picked her tiny body off the cold concrete, her little heart raced through her ribcage and her neck hung limp. Mason and I held her for the few minutes she had left in this world. A bigger dog could have survived the fall, but Annie had no chance.

Miss Annie Daisy touched so many people’s lives that I owed her friends this post so much earlier. But, holy shit, writing this post is hard. I think I really believed if I didn’t tell anybody, then it wouldn’t be true. It’s taken me almost three weeks to admit her death to anyone but the people that are in my life daily. It’s like I needed to absorb it. And the grieving isn’t over yet. I can’t stop looking for her brown, brilliant eyes watching my every move or listening for her tiny paws pitter- pattering down the hardwood floors. A time or two I swear I’ve even caught a glimpse of her pointed ears poking out of her pink blanket.

The hardest part for me so far is figuring out who I am now that Miss Annie is dead. When you love something with so much of your heart, what do you fill that space with when they’re gone? I find some comfort in knowing she loved me as much as I adored her. That was the rare thing about our love, there was never any doubt between me and Miss Annie. She was number one on my list and I was number one on hers. No questions asked.

I should never have known Miss Annie, but I’m damn glad I did. Quite simply, Annie is the reason the Farnival exists. She changed me as completely as she changed everyone who had the honor to know her.