"Trouble" was my mother's first dog, but Scoot was mine. This picture would have been around 1965 or so.
Scoot was a terrier mix, of pedigree unknown, the runt of her litter, acquired from the back of a pet shop. She lived to age 15 without any health problems at all. She killed a few rats -- proof, in our eyes, that she had the right stuff.
Scoot traveled from Washington, D.C. to Kansas, and from Morocco to Algeria, and back to Washington again. She is buried, with headstone, just off Dupont Circle in Washington, D.C.
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It doesn't matter how long they've been gone, does it. I can't believe that my Cookie - a Jindo and thus a great deal of trouble - has been gone for seven years already. And my dog of a lifetime, Mabel (Mavili Vassoulia tou Argou) whom I plucked off a garbage dump in Argos Greece (hence the name), is gone for eight months. I still have to stop myself from calling her when I call everyone in, and checking for her tail before setting a foot on the floor.
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