The life of Korky

Korky

(July 16, 1977 - March 21, 1994)

Whoever said that a dog is man's best friend must have anticipated Korky, my Yorkshire Terrier.  I was privileged to have been her master for almost seventeen years.  When she died today, I lost a precious little companion who played a meaningful part in my understanding of the real Master's universe.

Korky was born during the early hours of July 16, 1977.  I remember it was a humid Saturday.  My family and I helped her mom deliver three pups.  Her brother Feeney came into the world with a respiratory problem, and his heart gave out before his lungs could develop and pull him to safety.  Alec lived until a speeding station wagon crushed his skull.  The driver didn't stop to inquire about the screams in the road behind.

As the sole survivor of her mother's gift of life, Korky quickly and firmly attached herself to my heart.  She grew from a gangly pooch to an exquisite specimen of her breed.  My memories are myriad, from her incessant demands to curl up on my lap to her silly dances when she needed to go outside.  She was always there for me.  She never disappointed.

Korky exceeded her allotted fourteen years by nearly three.  The veterinarian said she must have been spoiled.  I didn't confess to the endless cuddles and breakfast in bed.

Her final months were tough on both of us.  She descended to an existence of mostly sleep and feeding. However, she did consent to an occasional massage, especially behind the ears.

On her last day on earth, she moaned in discomfort.  In spite of my best intentions, there was no avoiding the genetic programming of death.  As the minutes ticked toward midnight, she accepted my offering of a modest painkiller, followed by a final trip to the water bowl.  I held her shaking frame in both hands as she tried to extract the cold liquid.  Then I carried her back to bed and smoothed her cropped hair.  She didn't make a sound, but I knew she appreciated my efforts.  Her breathing slowed as I touched her.

I found her gone this morning.  She had burrowed under her blankets to get away from the agony and had simply given up.  With tears in my eyes, I prepared a place for her in the flower garden outside my bedroom window.  Reluctantly, I walked to where she waited and lifted the soft covers and picked up the tiny, still body.  I carried her to her final resting place and laid her down amidst the blooms of spring.  Before I covered her for eternity, I stroked her face.

"Goodbye, little one," I whispered.  "Thank you for giving me your love."

I hurriedly completed my work and returned to my desk and cried for an hour.

Martin Keating

March 21, 1994

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