When my oldest nephew Nikolaus was first learning to speak, it was entertaining to ask him all sorts of questions. I would point to something in the room we were in and ask him, "What's that?" "Mo-mo-cycle." Motorcycle. When we looked through his photo album, I'd ask him, "Who's that?" "Mommy." "Who's next to Mommy?" "Amah." Even as a baby, my nephew was pretty good at recognizing animals. Rabbits, birdies, cows, pigs, he knew them all. He was a bit more specific when it came to one dog in particular: his own Sequoia. When I babysat Niko in the house on James, Sequoia would sit in her green chair and hang out with us. "Niko, who's that in the chair?" Even as a baby just beginning to master language, Niko knew this was no "doggie", or pet, this was "Quoia", a member of his family.
Last night, Sequoia passed away. To say she will be missed is a serious understatement. I scoured the interweb for a meaningful quote or verse to accompany this post for Sequoia, but nothing seemed to fit. Instead, I'll tell you one of my favorite Sequoia stories from when I dog/housesat for Brant and Larissa.
A few years ago, when B&L were still on James, I dogsat for them over a long weekend in the summer. If you have knees, you can watch Sequoia. She was happy as can be just resting her head on your knee and beaming at you. Never before have I met a dog who was just so content to be with people. If you scratched her back, you got a super-beam from Sequoia. I always went for the super-beam.
During my dogsitting stint, Sequoia and I took long walks around New Brunswick. Being the frightened suburbanite I was (and let's be honest, still am), I made up scary names to call Sequoia as we took our walks, like Killer or Fang. I also thought it wise to share with passerbys false tales of just how hungry Fang was and remind Killer of how much trouble she got in last time for trying to eat someone. You know, just in case any city riffraff was basing their decision to mug me based on what they learned from eavesdropping on my conversations with a dog. In case there is any confusion, readers, this was the dog who super-beamed when you scratched her back. This was also the dog whose mere presence in my mother's kitchen caused my maniacal horse-dog to behave like a normal canine. You can bet that Libby and I have had some long talks that ended in, "If you'd just be more like Sequoia, I think things might turn around for you."
Sequoia, I will miss looking into your beautiful eyes as you rested your head on my knee. I will also miss marveling at your tolerance while Oskar pulled and tugged at your ears. I will miss Nikolaus telling you to stay away from his Legos when you were at least 10 feet away from them. Most of all, I will miss your super-beam.
-L
