Saying good bye to a sweet friend

Yesterday my husband came home to find that our dog, Millie, had died. It was unexpected. She had spent much of the day barking at the farm workers tearing up the peanut field behind our house.

She was a healthy, happy, sweet, seven-year-old dog. She was a good dog and we will miss her.

I got Millie when I was still in college, living alone in a town house my last semester of school. I was nervous to be alone and my fiance, now husband, suggested I get a dog.

I immediately wanted her when I saw her. She was black as night and fuzzy and sweet as she can be.

Millie stood guard over the town house while I was in class. She slept at the foot of my bed, ready to pounce. She stole pizze from the dining room table (true story!).

When Jason and I got married and moved to Atlanta, Millie patiently endured living on the thirf floor of a walk up.

When we bough out first house she was happy to play in the back yard, enjoying the suburbs.

But her real personality came out when we moved to the country. Her huntress came out. She even caught, killed and ate a rabid skunk and had to be quarantined for six months (true story!).

Last summer I was in a wreck that injured my right leg. Sometimes I walk with a slight limp. In February Millie got kicked by a cow and injured her front right leg. She walked with a slight limp after that. Every day she accompanied my down the driveway, where we both limped to the mail box.

She will always be the sweet baby puppy who met me at the car every day. She will always be the good girl who howled at the dangers of creatures like raccoons. And she will always be the dog that made our sweet baby boy giggle at the sight of her.

Tales from the house on the hill Part 1: I'm home

I'm Home-

The first time I saw the little blue house on the hill I knew I was home.

It was a rainy day in March. It was unseasonably cool for Georgia and there was mud everywhere. We drove our little Saturn up the gravel driveway, across a rickety little bridge and to the little blue house on the hill.

Our home was supposed to sell soon. We had a buyer in the wings and we had to get out fast. (Side note, this sale did NOT happen. The house wouldn't sell for another year. But we will get to that later.)

I had been driving 95 miles one way to work everyday to work here, the best twice weekly newspaper in ALL of Georgia.

Also, our financial situation was a far cry from when we had bought our house in Metro Atlanta. The economy had hit us pretty hard. My husband took a HUGE paycut and the company I was working for closed and it had taken me a long time to find that newspaper job in Northwest Georgia.

I had been making the drive for almost a year. It was getting to be too much.

So it was time to move. The landlord had left the key hidden behind the electric meter. We walked through the tiny and empty house. It was a far cry from the house we were leaving.

"This bedroom is the size of our closet," my husband said.

We took it.

So we moved to the little blue house with the little red barn and we set up shop.

It was Easter weekend when my husband's parents moved us in. I am not a good mover. While I was happy to be selling the house in Atlanta (although it took much, much longer than I wanted) it hurt to leave it. Selling that house felt like a failure.

Leaving Atlanta for the hills felt like we were running from something. There were hurt feelings and tears and anger. Truthfully, I was a little depressed. So each box I watched my husband pack, hurt.

I just wanted to lie on the floor. At one point my mother-in-law had to tell me to get up and pack a box.

The move ended in tears. It was bad. Moves don't bring out the best in people do they?

But the little blue house it held a lot of possibility and once the tears stopped, I was happy to embrace those possibilities.

Next week: Looking for a sign.