If hobbits were dogs

When Mr. C was 18-months old, we picked out a puppy. Before the big day, I made arrangements with the woman on the phone, telling her that I wanted one of the females – I wasn’t interested in the male. A few hours later, we sat in the grass as puppies frolicked about. They were adorable – red and white Corgis with stubby little legs and stocky bodies full of energy and verve. I picked out a small female who had one eye of brown and one of blue.

The woman went off to finalize the paperwork and I sat watching my child toddle around trying to attract their attention. The females didn’t care – they were too busy chasing each other to notice him. But the male puppy wasn’t playing. Instead he followed Mr. C all over that yard, eager for the occasional pats on his tiny head, no matter how heavy handed. When the woman returned, ready for me to sign the papers, I told her that I was wrong – I’d changed my mind. The male puppy was ours.

A Corgi needs a proper name and it soon became clear that our fuzzy little bundle of fluff should be called Barnaby. If hobbits were dogs, they would be Corgis – think about it for a sec and you’ll know I’m right. They’re short with big, hairy feet and a loyal, steadfast disposition – they’re absolutely lovely.

When I would leave the house, whether for a quick trip to the store or to go on vacation for a week, Barn would position himself near the door. This guaranteed that he would be first in line when I returned, giving him a pat on the head as I ferried bags in from the car. He followed me everywhere, no matter if it was the middle of the night or if I moved from one room to another continuously for hours on end. I couldn’t even go to the bathroom alone. He was always there, usually positioned right in front of the door so that I had to step over him.

He kept watch over us, making sure that we were safe. When Mr. C was small and would run too far ahead of me, Barn would run loops around us, circling to keep his tiny herd together – just the way he liked it. He was our protector, but he was also our family.

During our three-week cross-country extravaganza, Barnaby tolerated the long days of driving, content just to be with us. Throughout his life, our many moves never seemed to faze him. We were his people and as long as we were there, he was home. But now, after fourteen years of his steady, devoted companionship, our Barn is gone. And our home just isn’t the same without him.

Goodbye, my friend. Thank you for taking such good care of us.