By Denise Crane

I have saved Nikki’s story for last. In a way, it is the hardest for me to capture because Nikki is my dog. Of all the dogs we have had in our various versions of years of being dog lovers, she is the first dog that really is mine. The majority of dogs we have had have really been mostly my husband’s. John was generally the one the dogs got closest to because he spent the most time with them, and he’s a great dog dad.

But not Nikki.

Things were changing in my life when we got Nikki. I was beginning to be able to scale back the hours in my work life and we had recently lost our family dog, Bailey, suddenly and without warning. John was mourning her and my daughter and I started looking for another dog. We kept dragging John to rescue events thinking he should get a new dog. He actually wasn’t really ready. At one rescue there was a gaggle of Chihuahua mixes, generally not a breed we had much experience with. As we walked around the cages, I missed Nikki the first time around. She was the only one lying quietly in the group. The rest were clamoring for attention. They were barking and jumping and seemed to understand that exhibiting cuteness was important.

But not Nikki.

One on of the circuits of the cages, I noticed her name. You see, Nikki was the “nickanackaname” my children had called my Mom. Mom died too young, and I miss her still. The name on the pet cage sign captured my attention. I leaned to the cage and opened the cage door and sat down on the ground. Nikki walked right over and sat in my lap. John still says he knew it was all over the minute that happened. The longer I sat with her in my lap, the more she staked her territory. She soon began to growl at anyone who approached me. Not in a menacing way exactly (she weighed about 11 pounds so menacing isn’t really a thing except in her mind) but more in a “hey, this is my person” way. The bond was cemented quickly. My daughter went home to get Tank so we could make sure they were compatible. The dog rescue agency scheduled an appointment for an in-home inspection. Nikki was dropped off for a house visit while we were hosting Tank’s birthday party and it became very clear to the rescue agency guy that we are a dog house. I remember thinking that it would be strange have a dog that was so small, and I was a tiny bit concerned that she would possibly be easily injured just by jumping off the furniture.

But not Nikki.

At her heaviest, she weighs about fourteen pounds. In her mind, however, she is 300 pounds and carries inside her the heart of a lion. She has always and clearly been the alpha of our pack. Though Tank lived with us before Nikki, Nikki clearly let him know that this was her house now, and it never bothered Tank. All other entrants to the pack also comply. I have seen her back a golden retriever into a corner. We are not sure exactly what she says to them, but it is clear that she is fearless.

I learn from Nikki how to be brave. We walk together almost every day. She keeps me and my walking friend, Margy, safe from any incoming threats. I learn to pay attention to what is a threat and what is not (just because it’s a big dog, for instance, doesn’t mean it’s a threat). I learn that enjoying simple things is a great way to live. A good walk in the morning, a good snack after our walk, a good perch to survey her domain to keep everyone protected, and all is well. For that reminder of seeing the holy in the mundane, I am grateful.