We called her Mattie.

One of a long line of smart ones. She was completely mine.

She made it to eleven. Died the night of the day I went away to business school at Cornell. Just like that.

My sister blamed me. Typically. All those year (not a typo) when I had a pickup truck in the outback of Jersey. Mattie rode in the back or chased me into Little Egypt, the wilderness behind our house. Wore out her heart, my sister said. Only thing. Nothing ever wore out Mattie’s heart. It was just fine, the whole way.

We were leery about getting a German Shepherd after our Irish Setters. Setters nice, shepherds mean. We studied up. You have to be able to pet the parents, the books said. So we did. Dad was a princeling, an obedience champ named Hans. Okay. Mattie came and curled up on my lap immediately and, to hell with the book learning, we went home with her.

She busted the screens on the back porch a couple times. Even my dad wasn’t too upset. “We got home too late to let her out,” he said. Then he repaired the screen for four hours. That’s Mattie. We all loved her.

Hans came to visit one time. His parents were so proud. Hans always obeyed. Then the cow at the top of the adjoining field got out into the cut corn and Hans and Mattie both streamed away in pursuit.

Now we weren’t breeders. We were angry parents. “Hans!” yelled his daddy. “Mattie,” yelled me. Guess who turned around and came back.

Hans and his daddy slinked away shortly thereafter.

Once she brought home a severed deer head. Life in the country. Plus the truck and all.

Then she became a town lady. In Salem. For years we knew she was sleeping on the couch when we were away. We didn’t mind, but she always pretended she wasn’t. She was a girl, you know.

Let me illustrate. If you left butter out in the kitchen, it would be gone the next morning. Once, for her birthday, I gave her a whole stick of butter with her dinner. She was offended. Wouldn’t eat it. We weren’t supposed to catch her in her deceptions.

So the couch was a long term game. My mother would go on errands and return to find a German Shepard sized hollow in the couch cushions. Mattie, of course, knew nothing about it.

Then, when Mattie was maybe nine, my mother left the house without her keys and returned before starting the car. There was Mattie, on the couch. They looked at one another. And Mattie didn’t move. Caught. She was okay with that. And so were we.

I knew she was ill when I left for business school. I said goodbye. I think she did too. Didn’t think it would be over so fast. But dogs live life at a different pace. Can’t wait to go waltzing with Mathilda again.