Dandelion petals and grass blades stuck in her brown-black fur. She always stayed two steps behind, keeping a watchful eye on her boy. Dixie was a border collie with a scarf of white around her neck, black fur stretching towards an alabaster-dipped tail. Her feet were cloaked in furry off-white socks, and a small rusty-brown patch lingered near her mouth. Her long, shaggy hair draped over her eyes, hidden like sunken caves behind a waterfall of black tresses.
She was a rescue dog my parents, well, rescued from the ASPCA in Maryville, Missouri. She was two-years old when they got her. We didn’t know where she’d been before that, but, over the years, her many layers—her wittiness, cleverness, empathy—made me consider her previous owners and what we inherited from them.
There wasn’t much to Maryville but endless cornstalk fields, yellow that reached farther than eyes could grasp. My mother told me that when the school bus pulled into our rural neighbourhood off a main stretch of highway, spewing dirt clouds kicked up from the unpaved road, Dixie would follow me, always two steps behind. Dixie would sit impatiently by the door until the driver released it, her tail conjuring small dust cyclones until my sibling or I descended. She’d stay seated until she received a haphazard head pat, signalling, at least to her, that it was okay to rise.
Soon, it would all become a distant memory. The Missouri heat would not be missed—a heavy hot fever that hung in the air. Gnats flew in thick squadrons, orbiting around warm bodies never to bite, just pester. At night, fireflies danced in the air; dime-sized midnight suns appeared, then disappeared. Dixie’s head bobbed and weaved, trying to make sense of the flashing orbs, occasionally snapping her teeth at them. Where there was annoyance, there was also beauty.
I don’t remember too much before Washington State. A myriad of images: cornstalk yellow, plains of tan grass, the neighbourhood girl, Melody, flickering fireflies, clear stars on dark nights, and the white, double-wide trailer we called home. Oh, and my first friend, Dixie. That night we watched the night air electrify and come to life.
*
In the year 2000, we moved from Missouri to Sequim, Washington so that my mother, who was from British Columbia, Canada, could be closer to her family on Vancouver Island. An odd compromise between her and my father. Sequim was a ferry ride away from Vancouver Island, but still on U.S. soil. A way for him to stay in his home country, though my mother had given up hers.
My father recounted useless facts on the long drive from Marysville, our lives crammed into the back of a U-Haul. Along the outer edges of interstate highways, plastic water bottles could be found every thousand yards, some just litter, but others refilled with a golden liquid that sparkled like apple juice when we drove by. Mostly from long-haul truckers, according to my father. “They got tight deadlines. Can’t afford to stop. Kind of like us right now,” he said. AC/DC cranked up high, he handed me an empty bottle.
*
“Come on, Dixie! Faster!” I said. My bike crank creaked under heavy feet, curled toes. Dixie chased her breath, panting small plumes of vapour. Pant, creak, pant, creak, pant, creak. Pinning the brake lever to the handlebar, my bike’s back tire locked up, skidding over the dew moistened asphalt. I slid into the wilted grass in the vacant lot on the corner of our cul-de-sac. “Beat you,” I shouted, as Dixie closed the gap. Her nails made audible ticks off the asphalt as she slowed. Then, she nestled in beside me
We waited in the lot, filling our lungs with Washington’s crisp fall air. My parents rented a three-bedroom home in a small cul-de-sac in Carlsborg, Washington, just outside the city limits of Sequim. They were waiting to purchase a house near the rental with four acres of land, a pond, and enough room to care for livestock, should they continue that trade from Missouri. The bus wound up the narrow rural road, a sluggish yellow blur that slowly came into focus. I laid the bike down in the lot, patting Dixie on the head when the bus screeched to a halt. “Go home, Dixie.” But she sat in idle, staying close to the bike and watched me board. The door swung open and the barbaric yawps of other kids wafted out. I slithered down the tight aisle, finding a seat near the back. The bus jolted forward and Dixie grew smaller through the window.
She didn’t turn to leave. She circled a patch of green, wilted grass near the bicycle and laid down next to it. Head bowed to her front paws, she rested her chin and closed her eyes. The sun stretched her shadow into long, oblong shapes, extending west across the grass.
A vehicle door thumped. A man in uniform trudged through the grass from a van, ANIMAL CONTROL printed on its side. Dixie’s tail wagged, kicking up loose grass blades. Her head lifted, eyes scanning for the yellow bus, but it wasn’t there. Neither was her boy.
“Hey, girl. What’re you doing—”
When the man stepped too close, Dixie rose and took a step over the bike, gritted her teeth; a low guttural growl pulsed from her belly and her ivory white canines gritted behind her lips. He knelt down, observing her body language. A neighbour had called Animal Control to report a dog tied to a bike with no one around for hours. He made note of no leash and pieced together that she wasn’t tied to the bike but chose to guard it. “Good girl.” He took his time, earning her trust as he inched forward. Her canines receded, and tail wagged. He found her collar buried in the fur of her neck. “Dixie,” he said, clasping the worn pet tag that dangled from the collar.
When I hopped off the bus later that afternoon, Dixie sat waiting for her head pat. When we got home, my mother told me Animal Control stopped by. “Dixie now has special privileges while on guard duty,” she said.
*
A tall plum tree in the yard shaded the southern corner of the pond. I sought shelter beneath its dark leaves and branches heavy with maroon plums, trying to find solace after my parents told me they were getting a divorce. At first I was alone, my mind a flurry of thought. Where will I go? How do you split yourself in two? Who gets which half? Dixie trotted up, rubbing her early winter coat against me.
“Not now, Dixie. Go away.”
She found a small patch of green a few feet away, circling it twice before she claimed it. Her cumbersome eyes never left me, not even to watch mallards skim scum off the pond as they landed. Maybe we’d be like the mallards, home being not a shared place but the people that make it up. Maybe home was a feeling rather than a physical place. So, home could be anywhere, with anyone my young brain strung together.
A light breeze rustled the above branches. Plums fell to the ground with a dull thump. The view of the pond pixelated, turned blurry and out of focus. Tears welled in my eyes. One rolled down my cheek and fell to the exposed skin of my wrist. Dixie laid her head on my arm, with the warmth of my mother’s hand, and caught tears like the ground caught plums.
*
Years later, in my 20s, I pinned an old Polaroid of Dixie to a wall. Her hair over her eyes, the white scarf of fur wrapped around her neck. I thought about her previous owners, strangers to me, and how they taught Dixie to be the best friend I ever had. How do you say thank you?