Our sweet Tallulah suffers from congestive heart failure, which is progressing cough by cough more rapidly than we want it to. Each morning we wake up hoping that Tallulah will be as lucky, but fearful that she has hacked her last hack while we slept.
For years, I have made fun of this sweet animal by writing stories of her silly antics in my columns. We named her Tallulah because she is as Southern as the other, more famous Tallulah, and BLANKhead because in the Alpha dog pecking order, she holds a permanent position.

The other four-legged female living rent-free in our house is the cat rescued from the clutches of the grim reaper. Sophie Sorrowful is an aloof feline who allows Babe and me to give her affection only when she is bored out of her mind. For the most part, she is a typical cat except for one small detail: she sidles up to Tallulah in hopes of being mistaken for a dog.

Sophie Sorrowful and Tallulah are best friends, so when Miz Blankhead's time on this earthly dog run has run its course, Miz Sorrowful will undoubtedly earn the entitlement to her given name, if not her birthright. In any case, it ain't gonna be pretty.

For fourteen years, Tallulah has been our pet, child, companion, playmate, comforter, burglar alarm and four-legged leftover-food disposal. The day she finally ascends to that all-you-can-eat canine banquet in the sky, bless her heart, she will leave behind a large, empty dog bowl and an even bigger emptiness in our lives.

Tallulah may not be the brightest bulb on the tree, but there's nothing wrong with her snout, especially at Christmastime. Did I mention that she's the only dog in town diagnosed with an eating disorder? Tallulah can sniff out a box of dog biscuits triple layered in heavy-duty holiday foil, tied with thick ribbons and secured with duct tape.

Christmas mornings I more often find the carefully wrapped packages are no longer under the tree, but ripped open and scattered all over the house. Smack in the middle of this mess, an overweight Cockapoo is flat on her back asleep, legs flopping to the sides like wilted celery stalks, snoring and farting in consecutive order.

Propped upright beside her is an empty container of Milk Bones. Unlike the rest of the mess, the box is in perfect condition as though Tallulah took out the treats one by one, before delicately popping them into her mouth. Uh huh, like THAT could happen.

My brother and I grew up with dogs. There was Penny, and then another one whose name I can't remember, probably Nickel. After that, there was Susie Q who fell up the stairs and died while my brother was in the service. Knowing how attached he was to that dog, Mama and I tried our best to cry hard enough for all of us.

Daddy was Police Chief in our town, so he got two prisoners from the jail to dig a hole in the back yard in which to lay the little dog to rest. When it was filled back up with dirt and Susie Q wrapped in her raggedy old blanket, Daddy stood looking down at the gravesite while Mama and I watched from a window inside the house. I'd like to think he was saying a few kind words about our deceased canine sibling.

As any pet lover can attest, our animals often become extended family members, even substituting as children to some of us. People who have never experienced the joy an animal brings to a household have missed so much. Folks who see only dog hair and fur balls, instead of unconditional love and devotion, must be lacking an important gene. The way I see it, we are given the privilege of co-existing with our pets for a few precious years, as if we are being served a tiny bite of heaven.

When Tallulah finally makes it to the Pearly Gates, I have a sneaking suspicion she will wag her stubby tail, smile in her lopsided way, and blissfully chomp down on an eternity of T-Bone steaks, medium rare. I want to think God has exactly that in mind for our sweet, goofy Tallulah Blankhead. And if it's true that DOG is GOD spelled backwards, then I know for sure that she will go back to the heaven from whence she came.