The Bittersweet that was Darla | Eastern North Carolina Now

    Most good ideas are my wife’s. My 12 year daughter, Meredith, wanted a pet dog for Christmas. My wife, Lynn, came to me with a glint in her eye on December 24, 1996, upon my return from the real estate office. “Have you even considered what we are to give Meredith for Christmas?”

    My reply, “I know you have it well in hand. So tell me: What are we getting Meredith this year?”

    Lynn continued, “I have found a female Samoyed for 200.00 if we take the runt of the litter, with papers, and Meredith has no idea as to any of this. Can you find Beargrass?”

    That night, I found Beargrass, North Carolina, and I found the dog breeder, and we took the runt. She was a white furry ball, with perfect black markings (eyes, nose and lips), with one biscuit ear. The “biscuit ear” is a beige stamp on one of her ears that usually fade away as the puppy matures. Within just a few months the puppy was perfect, but small.



    That next Christmas morning, after Meredith’s little dog spent her first night as the newest Deatherage yelping in our greenhouse, the little ball of white fur came into our lives. Meredith was overcome with joy with her one big gift, however, not so swept away that she did not name the dog, which she did: Darla. Darla Deatherage.

    On Saturday, April 15, 2010, our most recent family member, and paradoxically our oldest, Darla, passed away. She lived nearly 13 ½ years, which makes her about 80 years old in the so-called “dog years.”

    Darla’s health had deteriorated noticeably in the last 8 months. In retrospect, I believe her downward spiral began a few months earlier when Darla was bitten by a critter she tried to kill. Darla was infamous for her uncontrollable urge to render all manner of God’s creatures lifeless. This time, I think she tangled with the wrong critter – possibly a copperhead or a cottonmouth.

    Her face swelled, and she lethargically remained in a high state of repose for three weeks, and, sadly, would not take her legendary walks with my wife. These legendary walks enriched her life, but was; however, just one of the many highlights of Darla’s day. When Darla was in her prime, she would walk the narrow roads of Mac’swood, enjoy the many scents that made up her world, and find a fine pond to enjoy the refreshing pleasure of becoming fully immersed. Darla did love the stink of a dead animal’s carcass and muddy pond water when ever it was available. It was a needless proposition to keep her bathed, but she had many other fine points as well.

    When the day’s time would turn 3:00 pm, Darla would wait at the edge of our rear drive, and follow the car up the drive, and then do this shrill whimper that wasn’t dog-like, like she was trying to communicate in our language, but couldn’t quite figure out how. Her non canine whimper was not so similar to a bird, but I accused her of it anyway. Darla Birddog she was known, among other was descriptive monikers: Darla Black Lips, ‘Possum Slayer.

    Her other most instinctual urge was to kill the aforementioned critters that had the misfortune to cross my property’s boundaries. Darla was most territorial. On one cool spring night at 4:10 am, after another warm southern day, the rush of cooler air in my bedroom window also carried the wolfen strain of Darla’s moaning bark as she abandoned her birddog dialect to embrace her bloodthirsty instinctual urge to trap, disorient and kill a stray cat that wandered into our front yard. There was no stopping her, and lord knows I tried. From the moment she delved into her frenzied state, there was no stopping her bloodlust. Fortunately, Darla did not kill the neighbors' cats, or our cat, Ally. But one thing is for sure: When her blood was up, she was a brute.

    As Darla became older, our neighborhood, Mac’sood, was forcibly annexed by the City of Washington, NC, which along with the extra property taxes for garbage pick-up came the oppressive leash law. I was not about to fence in my 2.36 acre yard. And what was I to do about the pond that I share with my neighbor? Restrict my dog from the pond she loved so much, or build a fence through its middle? Preposterous, right?



    So I practiced civil disobedience. I built no fence, no pen. I taught my animal to stay in the yard as much as she could stand, and my wife, and I, on occasion, took our walks with Darla – without a leash of course. I did not bargain for city ordinances when I moved my family to this neighborhood, and when we brought our furry white runt home, who grew into a majestic Samoyed – over 80 pounds – we gave her the run of the yard, and the pond. I treated her with same deference as I would my own children, and I sure never put a leash on them. In fact, I don’t do leashes. It’s not in my nature, and it was not in Darla’s. That was a little agreement that we had between us.

    When she perished on Saturday, she weighed much less than ½ of that of normal bulk. The kind veterinarian, Marty Poffenberger, and her sweet assistant, Paula, knew Darla well. Moreover, they knew it was her time to die. Darla, when she looked up at me with her cloudy eyes, communicated that she wanted to go quietly – that she knew it was her time. Dogs are wise in their understanding of this basic last rite of passage. That sorrowful morning, I said goodbye the best way I could – I held her limp paw as they administered the fatal shot that gave her the peace she deserved - to set her spirit free.

    We brought her shriveled body home to her big yard, where my son, Stanhope, and I, dug her fine final resting spot. Deep it was under a spreading Magnolia, and a hundred-year-plus red oak, at the corner of the small fence that we built for our pony nearly two decades earlier. Darla, in life, favored the spot. It was shady and looked down the hill at the natural cypress pond that she loved so much. It served her well in life. It will do just fine as her eternal resting place.



    That Sunday, the entire family gathered and we had a short service, where we prayed for Darla’s whimsical spirit and remembered her well as one of us, more than just an animal that we possessed. My baby girl, 18 now, made a perfect wood cut of our beloved old girl, and it serves as a temporary headstone. We loved that dog so damn hard. I believe we would all concur that she loved us twice that measure. Goodbye old friend. Farewell Darla Deatherage. We have our memories of you. They will have to suit us for now until we meet again on that distant shore.