Dear Moki

March 27
Dear Moki,
Now you did it, bad enough that you jumped our fence and ran away, but you took the grandchildren's dog with you. We miss you both - Kona for his sweetness, you for your bounce and energy. I remember the day you were born - one of eight wiggling bits of life. You were two months old when we chose you, with your white ruff, brown feet, and sleek black coat. The day we brought you home, you jumped out of the car, squeezed under the gate and trotted back to your old home. I brought you back and that night you cried but never puddled the floor.
Soon you were part of the family. "Bedtime", Buzz would call and you'd hop on the couch as we went upstairs. Later we'd hear you quietly pad up the stairs and settle on the landing. You'd crawl as close to our bed as Foolsie the cat would allow. Remember how she had a hissy fit when you got too close? The bed was HER territory. I guess the floor got too hard because sometime during the night you'd tromp downstairs for that soft couch.
So where are you now? Did someone pick you up, did you get caught in a pig trap, fall into one of the big sinkholes? Surely you are too smart for that, But you've been gone a week, I'm not crying anymore but I kiss your dear face, your playfulness - tossing your "Squeekie into the air for us to catch. I miss the sound in the morning: the little mews, tiny woofs, the thump of your tail. I miss you kid, you were our special one.
We left the door open at night the first two days you were gone - I cried when Buzz carried your food and pans upstairs. It seemed so final. It's still there waiting for you. I'd like to say, "come home, all's forgiven", but I don't want to start hoping again, it's too painful.
We love you, we miss you.
Come home.
Mother

March 28
Dear Moki,
Shame on you leaving your dad who stroked you, played with you, watched you outside while you did your business. Last night he had his first dream, (he says he never dreams). He dreamed you came home again.
So, come on, boy, get with it, and show your face again.
All's forgiven.
Mother

April 3
Dear Moki,
Our sorrow is healing, we only hope you are in the care of good people and not down in a sinkhole where no one can hear you,
Dad took down the barrier where the fence had fallen and stacked the wood to plug the holes. Remember how you used to sneak out through the fence? You'd wait until we weren't looking, then zip through with a yip and a ha-ha. Well the ha-ha is on you, isn't it?
Kona's mom still acts cross with me - she doesn't say so but I know she blames us for you leading Kona astray. She has a new dog now, looks like Kona with the Akita face. We went down to the Humane Society to see what is available in case we want to have another friend in the family. Have to think about it. You were lots of fun but a pain in the butt, too.
Well, boy, we miss you. I still tear up but another day is coming and we'll all live through it. You'll not be forgotten, your puppy mischief - the ragged edges of the carpet, the scars on my arm - will always rimind me of you. You'll not be forgotten.
Buck up, wherever you are. You carry our love with you.
Mother

I actually wrote these letters to Moki in 2001. Since then we have acquired two more dogs from the Humane Society but to this day, nine years later, whenever I see a dog in the back of a pickup truck, I look to see if it could be our Moki.
©Natalie Norman Baer