Looney

My mom taught the family dog how to swim by throwing her into the local drainage lake. On walks through the still developing development subdivision suburb or whatever you want to call it (like an even more morbid and humid version of Edward Scissorhands), our German Shepherd/Bassett mix would pull taut the leash and keep herself in a state of constant almost-asphyxiation.
"Mommy, why does Looney do that?"
"She's being the alpha dog, sweetie."
"Oh..."
"She's trying to be the pack leader, so she wants to lead us, to be in front all the time."
"Oh..."
"We're her pack, we-no, Looney, no!"
"WEEEEE!!!!"
Then she'd be rocketing down the street toward maybe a duck or squirrel, or simply because she felt the need to run. Me, small and brown, with a little toddler pot belly and a haircut that looked like a Lego figurine helmet, running to keep up with my running mother, undoubtedly a vision of youthful maternal perfection, long and blonde, outwardly happy with three little girls all under the age of 5 when she herself was barely an adult, running in vain after the world's only hound mix named Looney. Looney after the Canadian coin dollar. Not the cartoons. Just like I'm Eden. After a soup opera character. Not the Garden.
Looney would run right to the drainage lake behind the brush and undergrowth that I'd wander freely through while my sisters were at school, without worrying about spiders or snakes or neighboring sexual offenders. Simpler times, simpler pleasures. Looney would do a lap or two around the lake, probably a mile total, before we'd stop her. Then my mother would climb onto the top of a large cement pipe, scoop Looney up (Looney was an angsty undersized pre-teen, 15 pounds tops, probably why she'd run like hell away from us all the time), swing her back and forth for momentum, then toss her right into the lake, alligators, water moccasins, parasites, all probably present and accounted for. We'd laugh as Looney paddled back, huffing and puffing and spurting drool and lake water. She always came back. Always wanted more. And always, my mother abided. Again and again Looney would be airborne for a fleeting moment, legs and paws straight out and rigid, her tail curved like a question mark, unmoving as she sailed. I think that's why Looney wanted it so bad, to be thrown into the lake. To fly. She was that kind of dog. Transcendent.
It was all in good fun. We didn't abuse Looney. My mom and I treated Looney like a queen, up until I became too wrapped up in my own self-inflicted teenage hell to care. Then my mom took on the role of primary Looney-worshipper.
Looney was there when we moved for the first time from our standard American-Dream-issued-yet-really-a-sign-of-failed-affluence subdivision home in Victoria Woods, in Green Acres, to a 1960s farm-style house on two acres of South Florida acreage, all Australian pines and the normal Florida grass thats weeds in places north where golf grass is normal grass. She chased ducks so often at the lakes and ponds in our little town that the sisters went in pairs, maybe even once or twice the three of us went, to walk Looney, to help in holding the leash as Looney surged forth with Cerberean strength, eyes on the ducks crossing the street, waddling through the ever-present South Florida puddles, picking at invisible morsels.
Looney always got away. We always chased after, screaming her name, flailing our arms in desperation as we watched her swim in circles after a singular duck that we'd imagine was laughing at her, baiting her, leading her on until she exhausted herself and drowned. Which she didn't. Looney never drowned chasing the ducks. It was my worst fear, but it never happened. She was too good at chasing them. She knew what her limit was, she simply ignored it.
Once, she brought home duck wings. I didn't question her.
I credit Looney for bringing my father, my mother, and myself together one last time before their divorce and the liquidation of the house Looney and my sisters and I grew up in. Looney died on a normal morning, very early, right outside my parents window, under the corn plants my mother prized, and next to the entrance to the crawl space that always held a sense of mystery for me, even as I got older and spent less and less time smelling the wet and mossy air coming from it. My sisters were both gone, living lives I couldn't imagine until I was going through it myself. My mother roused me gently instead of ripping the covers off and turning on every light in my room.
"Eden, Eden. It's Looney." I was groggy, so this is where things get iffy. I followed her out of the house to where Looney was. She was laying just in front of her usual dirt bed. I can't remember if she was already dead by the time I got there, or was going. My father was there, petting her. My father had always harrassed Looney, called her a stupid mutt all the time, but I knew he'd always loved her. I remember touching her fur in the gray early morning quiet, all color leached from the bushes and trees, my mothers eyes. We squatted around Looney for a long time. I just stared. Words were exchanged, but I don't remember what they were. It doesn't matter now. I didn't cry. I'm crying now, but I didn't cry then. I didn't cry until three days later in English class, doodling. I had to excuse myself.
Looney was the best dog in the world for a family like mine. She brought a family of individuals together as one by chasing ducks and causing neighborhood drama. She scraped all the paint off the front door by jumping up to look at as through the window every time anyone came home. Seriously, anyone ever. They didn't have to be family. Looney spent a good deal of her time near that door, ready to see who was coming. She'd chase our cars down our long gravel driveway until finally my dad hit her, and she and her paw were never the same. She barked uncontrollably at fireworks and tried to eat them. She buried my uncle's shoe which we unearthed 7 years later after a hurricane wrent all of our trees limb from limb. She attacked our cats on command, with little more provocation beyond "Git er, Looney, git er!" Then the closest cat got a facefull of Looney-mouth, all in good fun of course.
That dog. Oh, that dog.