Four Legged Friends: My Darling Abigail

By Susan Scheide

The first female dog we ever had was an English setter we called Abby. Her registered name was Clariho’s Dear Abigail. We named her Abigail because the old, beat-up paperback dictionary we owned had a section of names and their meanings in the back, and that particular book said Abigail meant “father’s joy.” Clariho was the kennel name of the breeder, and the “dear” part was just for fun. Despite the meaning of her name, Abby was Mom’s dog from day one.

Mom and Abby circa 1978

I have vague memories of the whole family taking the trip to pick out a puppy at the breeder’s home. Abby was meant to be a show and hunting dog, just like the dog we already had, Jeb. Abby seemed to be a wild child, fearless and absolutely adorable.

Her early puppy days at home are a bit of a blur. I was 10 or 11 when Abby joined the family. One thing I remember well is that she just loved to steal the big fluffy yellow bath mat from the bathroom I shared with my brothers. She was quite a sight — a small puppy with a huge bath mat playing “catch me if you can” as often as possible.

While Dad was at work and the kids were in school, Abby spent most of her time with Mom, so that is who she attached herself to. Mom trained Abby to do all the usual things — sit, stay, down, come, and heel. Imagine Dad’s surprise when he decided it was time for obedience lessons and he found himself with a star pupil!

I think Abby was entered in a show or two, and I don’t remember if she didn’t behave properly, or the judges didn’t like her looks, but her show career ended before it really ever began. As far as hunting, she had the ability to find and point the birds, but the noise from the shotgun scared her too much, and so she was “retired” from hunting.

Abby was still a youngster when we moved from Connecticut to California. The only way to get a direct flight with the dogs (to avoid the risk of having them change planes) was to send them out a week or so before my mother, middle brother, and I joined Dad, who was already out there. My oldest brother, Bill, was assigned the task of flying to California as a passenger while Jeb and Abby were cargo. I remember standing with Mom and Rob, waving goodbye to Bill. And then seeing the dogs loaded into the plane. We were all so worried, but they arrived unharmed.

The whole family, dogs and all, were all put up in the Hotel Bel-Air, a luxury hotel frequented (at the time) by the rich and famous while we awaited our furniture’s arrival from Connecticut. One night we were strolling the lush grounds, and who should appear on the garden path but the actor Robert Wagner. We were all dumbstruck. But he walked right up to us and said, “Magnificent animals!” and Dad kept his cool and replied, “Thank you, Mr. Wagner” and strolled on, like we met a movie star every day of the week.

Our furniture arrived, and we left the hotel to start our new lives as Californians. The first order of business was to completely fence off part of the back yard for the dogs. The house was mostly glass, or so it seemed to us, and Jeb walked right through the patio door screen on day one, creating a makeshift doggy door for himself, so the fence was critical. Abby was in heat, and the house’s prior owner, who had only moved a few houses down the street, owned an intact German shepherd dog named Gus. Gus kept trying to “go home,” and he showed up at the house daily for a while. We really didn’t want any shepherd/setter mix pups, so we guarded Abigail like she was Fort Knox.

Jeb was a successful show dog and a good hunting dog. Both Jeb and Abby were from top-notch bloodlines, so Dad decided they would have a litter of pups. It was always planned that we would keep at least one of them. Abby had no interest in motherhood, but she did produce a beautiful litter of healthy pups, six girls and two boys. The girls were all sold to loving homes, and we kept both boys. They were named Madaket and Bo.

Four short years in California passed, and we were on the move again, this time to Massachusetts. I will never forget landing at Bradley Field in Connecticut (we were going to stay with my grandmother while we waited for our furniture). Some knucklehead put our four dogs on the luggage carousel, and Jeb’s crate had turned sideways, and all the suitcases were stacking up because the crate had jammed the doorway. My brothers had to pick the crate up and get him off the moving belt. When they lifted the crate, the bottom fell out, and Jeb and his squeaky frog hit the ground. Chaos ensued, but it all ended well.

As Abby grew older, she got really curly fur, and she got a little chubby. She started to look a bit more like a lamb than an English setter. Abby became great friends with our horse Kate, and Mom would sometimes let Kate onto our back lawn to eat grass, and Abby would lie out sunning herself, keeping Kate company.

When she was very old, and it was her time to go, I was asked to take her to the vet to be put to sleep. I held her paw and told her how much she was loved and would be missed. The vet administered the drugs, she took one soft breath, and just slipped away. That little girl had so many adventures, and gave us so much joy. To this day, Mom refers to her as “my darling Abigail.”

Share This Post

Short URL: https://www.thecantoncitizen.com/?p=32806