Corky

By Marjorie H. Gore (Margie)

♡ ❦ ♡

Not long ago, while going through some old black-and-white photographs, I found the most charming picture. There, sitting outside, was a little white chair, and curled up comfortably in it was the cutest little black cocker spaniel.

I knew him immediately.

Corky.

Corky was my very first pet. I have had many dogs and cats since then, and I have loved every one of them dearly. But there is something special about the first animal who becomes not simply an animal you care for, but part of your family.

Corky was that for me. And he was that for Mama, too.

Mama had grown up on a farm and had been around animals all her life, but being around animals and having a pet of your very own are two different things. Corky was Mama's first real pet, and she absolutely adored him.

So did I.

Daddy liked Corky. He was kind to him and had nothing at all against having a dog in the family. But Daddy wasn't in love with Corky.

Mama and I were.

We thought that little dog hung the moon and the stars.

Money wasn't plentiful in those days, certainly not at our house, but every day Mama bought hamburger meat and cooked some especially for Corky. That little dog had his scrambled hamburger at least once a day. If you want to know how much my mother loved Corky, I think that tells you.

When we moved into the first little house we ever had—not an apartment, but a house—Mama decided Corky needed a safe place outside where he could play. So she and Uncle Tommy, Daddy's brother, dug post holes, strung wire, and built a fenced area in the backyard just for him.

There was only one difficulty: whenever we went on vacation, Mama and I hated leaving Corky.

Daddy loved Florida and the ocean. Mama and I could have done quite nicely without the sand and the waves, but Daddy worked hard all year, and Florida was his special place. He deserved his vacation, so off to Florida we would go.

Usually, we arranged for a neighbor or someone Corky knew to come to our house and take care of him. Corky could stay in familiar surroundings, and Mama and I could leave knowing our baby was with someone who cared about him.

Then came one summer when no one was available.

Our plans had already been made, and there seemed to be only one sensible thing to do. We boarded Corky at the veterinarian's. We didn't like it. Corky didn't like it. But we believed he would be safe and well cared for.

While we were away, Corky became ill. We even called from Florida to check on him, but we did not understand how serious things had become.

Before we could get home, Corky died.

Mama and I were heartbroken.

For a long time, we blamed ourselves. We wished we hadn't gone. We wished someone had been available to stay with him. We wished we had done something—anything—differently.

But as the years passed, I came to understand that Corky's story was not really about the way we lost him. It was about the way we loved him, and about what he taught us while he was here.

We had given Corky a home where he never had to wonder whether he belonged. He had his scrambled hamburger, his own little yard, and two women who thought he hung the moon and the stars.

And Corky gave us something in return.

He taught Mama and me what it meant to love a pet.

That lesson did not end when Corky's life did. I carried it with me through all the years and through all the dogs and cats who came afterward.

So now, when I look at that old black-and-white photograph, I try not to see the sad ending first.

I see a little black cocker spaniel curled up in a white chair, perfectly content and completely certain that he belonged there.

I see Mama cooking his hamburger. I see Mama and Uncle Tommy building his fence. I see Daddy putting up with two women who were hopelessly in love with a little dog.

And I see Corky—our first pet, and our first lesson in the peculiar, wonderful love that can exist between people and the animals who share their lives.

Corky left us a long time ago.

The love didn't.